


A Young Writer Marked for Death

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe 1910-1920, Henri Gaudier-Brzeska/Ezra Pound, Implied Balthazar/Crowley, M/M, Romance, Writer!Sam, nobody dies!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an aspiring writer in Paris isn't easy, and with Adam wasting away from consumption, Sam's life sure is difficult. It could be worse, though: Adam could be dead or they could both be back in Kansas where they would end up in jail. Monsieur Lucifer could have asked them to leave Le Cabaret Perdu when he discovered the less than flattering poem that Adam wrote about him. Instead Sam makes a surprising deal with Lucifer that is going to change Adam's life — and his own. Sort-of Moulin Rouge AU with a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promise, nobody dies! Also, a nod to Hemingway for the title, inspired by his 1936 short story "A Man Who Was Marked for Death".
> 
> For anon kngfishergirl who wanted a Moulin Rouge AU with Writer!Sam and Notorious!Cabaret-owner!Lucifer and nobody dying from consumption. Well, I never watched Moulin Rouge, but Modernism 1900-1940 is my line of research when I'm not up to here in Fanthropology, so I do know a little about what the Bohéme did in France at that time. Ignoring RL timelines, I simply threw Sam into the wonderful mess of artists and writers living in Paris before/around/after WWI. 
> 
> Most of the quotes about Ezra Pound's view on sexuality, and about his (b)romance with Henri Gaudier are canon, so to speak. Anyone interested in elaboration would enjoy Pound's heartbreaking declaration of love, "Gaudier-Brzeska, a Memoir", written after Gaudier's death in the trenches, 1915.

**A Young Writer Marked for Death**

Sam shivers and pulls the collar up tight around his neck, warding off the icy November wind. Fall is dying and winter lurks around the corner with sharp teeth and pointed claws. He walks faster, as to keep warm; the small bundle of twigs and a few pieces of hard wood had been far from enough to keep his tiny room warm. He saves what little wood he has for later, for when they go home; saves it until Adam is in bed, covered by blankets; saves it to save Adam. 

With long strides, Sam hurries down _Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs_ , turns left and sighs with relief when he gets away from the icy-fingered wind. It can't reach him between the houses that lean with heavy shoulders against each other, a long tired row of winter-lazy buildings. Wet leaves cover the narrow street and Sam slips, saving himself with a hand on the nearest wall. 

"Winchester!" The call is torn asunder by a hard gust of wind.

Sam straightens up. "What's up, Ez?" Ezra and Henri are crossing the street between a Ford N and a horse-drawn carriage that takes up most of the street as it rumbles down the cobbled road. Henri has to run as not to end up under the heavy iron-clad wheels. One of the horses snorts at them, as if it finds them beneath it. The black carriage passes them by in a flurry of hoofs and noise.

"Gaudier." Sam clasps hands with Henri Gaudier; the sculptor's hand is rough from hard work and frost bites. "How's your new work coming?"

"C'est difficile... difficult. " Henri shrugs as if his art isn't something worth mentioning. Sam knows better. "The stone is uncooperative," Henri elaborates.

"He's being modest." Ezra slips an arm around Henri's waist. "If only I was able to create poems with the same ease as he carves marble."

Sam laughs. Both his friends are being ridiculous. And if anyone is able to write perfect poetry it's Ezra Pound. "Who's being modest now?"

"I'm never modest." Ezra sends Sam a wide smile. "The only thing I use modestly is adjectives; they are unnecessary additions to any true image."

It's an ongoing discussion between them, Ezra's dislike of a word class that Sam encompasses with more than lukewarm feelings. He decides to stop Ezra before they end up on a windswept corner, debating the use of the English language and whether the image allows frequent use of anything but bare-bone grammar. Sam likes Frost and Stevens better, but Ezra's way with words is undeniable. Sam is talented, hard-working, a good poet, but he'll never reach the level of perfection that Ezra shows.

"I was on my way to _Cabaret Perdu_ ," Sam says. "Adam is there."

"Isn't he always?"

Yes. Adam is sitting at Le Perdu when he's not in bed in his cold, damp room. Le Cabaret Perdu is warm and cosy, and somehow Adam has managed to get into the good graces of Michael, one of the owners; the other being Lucifer, his younger brother. Sam doesn't like Michael Alighieri, but it is not up to him to decide for Adam. Staying at Le Perdu at least makes sure that Adam is comfortable during the day. It might give him another year or two or three, before he goes under. If only Sam could afford to send Adam to a sanatorium, but that is not possible. At twelve dollars a poem, and with the small amount Ezra gives them when he can, it's not possible. Even the tiny opium jar that Sam keeps in his pocket, filled with relief in the shape of a sticky, brown substance that Adam is only allowed to take on nights when his coughing is bad, is by Ezra's generosity only. They all do what they can for Adam, and it's not enough. 

"You're going too?" Sam asks and turns in the direction of the cabaret. "I think I'm staying for a few hours, maybe taking Adam home if he wants to go."

"They got rid of the clown act?" Ezra laughs. "I didn't appreciate it, either. Good thing it's gone; I suppose you stay until the end, then?"

"Yeah." Sam nods. "Unless Monsieur Lucifer starts bothering me again. Or hires more clowns."

"I must admit," Ezra says almost conspiratorially, "that I do not understand this affinity for the Greek way of life. Both the Alighieri brothers. Wilde, Epstein, Whitman... Even my Japanese friends find it a natural pastime."

"Seriously?" Sam asks. He looks from Henri to Ezra and back to Henri again. Henri is beautiful and openly bisexual. Ezra is passionate and burns as hot as the mop of fire-red hair on his head. "Seriously, seriously? So Henri is just a... fluke? And as I recall it, you were expelled from university because you kept a male female impersonator in your room. Or was it a female male impersonator?"

"That's different," Ezra states. "Henri and I... we are made for each other. Soulmates. We're above the flesh."

" _Ezra_... is above it," Henri snorts, his eyes glinting with suppressed laughter. "I'm usually below."

Sam shakes his head and starts walking. Paris is where the Bohème gathers, for more reasons than being where the art is _avant-garde_ and the wine is cheap. Another reason is that they are free here, free to love whoever they love without interference from the law. Ezra can call it what he likes, but Sam won't stop being amused by it, his love for Henri. If Henri wasn't so obviously taken, Sam would have been interested, if nothing else, then because it might ward off the man they'd just been talking about, the only dark cloud on an otherwise clear sky, apart from Adam's illness. Monsieur Alighieri is... 

Sam makes a grimace. 

Lucifer Alighieri is handsome, rich, and everything Sam doesn't want. And yet some of Sam's dreams have on occasion featured the notorious Monsieur Alighieri in certain compromising positions.

Ezra and Henri catch up with him just outside the cabaret's entrance. A poster on the wall announces that _Anna and Hannah, the Dancing Angels_ are the evening's main attraction, and that two gentlemen that go by the names of Inias and Castiel are going to sing a few dirty _chansons d'amour_. Seeing the preference of the Alighieri brothers, Sam isn't in doubt of the content of those dirty ditties.

They are early, and the small ticket box at entrance is empty. Ezra taps on the window with his silver-headed cane. It takes only a moment before Mademoiselle Ruby (Sam thinks that she's Monsieur Alighieri's favorite these days, because she sends Sam a glare) smiles at Ezra and runs to let them in. 

Ezra and Henri hand her the money, a handful of torn franc notes. 

" _He_ isn't paying," she says acerbically and sends Sam another icy glare. "Courtesy of Monsieur Alighieri. Not that he'd know courtesy if it came into his presence."

Sam agrees. Monsieur Alighieri is many things, but courteous is not one of them. Notorious, cruel and — if it is true what people say — in league with the infamous diabolist Alastair Crowley, a man that Sam wholeheartedly despises for his bigotry and double standards. To be fair, Sam has never seen the satanist in Le Cabaret Perdu, so it might be an untrue rumor. One never knows with Lucifer Alighieri.

They find Adam at his usual table at the far wall, so close to the heating pipes that Adam can rest his feet on them. The reserved table is by courtesy of Michael Alighieri, Lucifer Alighieri's older brother. Sam is not sure what Michael wants with Adam — Adam's pale, fragile appearance might make him almost femininely beautiful, but consumption is dangerous. Contagious. Adam has his own glass, his own cutlery for that particular reason. Maybe it's pity, not that Sam believes that the stiff, always correct Michael Alighieri is susceptible to such nonsense. At least pity, sympathy and grace seem to be nonsense to the Alighieri family. Rich as they are, they don't support the arts or the artists; they pay those who work for them, that is all. Compared to Ezra's selfless sharing of what little he owns, Michael and Lucifer Alighieri come out as egotistical, selfish characters.

"How are you?" Sam asks, a hand resting lightly on Adam's shoulder. Adam is drinking a glass of wine. There is a half full bottle on the table. _Cahors 1912_. The wine is dark ruby, almost black, all sunshine and warmth, everything Adam needs. He has a little color, as if the wine has lent him some of the concentrated summer it contains. It is also a bottle far too expensive for Adam to have bought by himself. Maybe Michael isn't as much of a Scrooge as Sam believes him to be.

"Good." Adam looks up and smiles a grape-tainted smile. At least it's not blood. "I finished the poem." He picks up a sheet and hands it to Sam. _Pavane for the Devil_. 

Sam looks it over, Adam's trademark sarcasm clear in the short, deceptively minimalistic poem. He can hear the pavane in his head, the slow duple meter evident as he reads it again. The decorous rhythm and the hard sarcasm clash and create a thrilling combination. Sam doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. Adam is good, one of the most talented poets of the century and they all know it. He offers the sheet to Ezra.

"It's about _him_." Ezra nods in the direction of a tall, blond man who's in the process of harassing one of the choir girls. "Monsieur Alighieri." He nods again and it's great praise. Ezra never holds back when there is something — or someone — he doesn't like and a nod from him is like winning at the races. "I'd like to send it to Harriet Monroe. _Poetry_ would be willing to take it, I'd think. Or perhaps _The New Age_."

Adam relaxes, relieved. "Thanks, Ez, I appreciate it." Adam doesn't offer his hand. He is careful, always careful. "Want to join me? There is more wine."

"We'll have beer," Henri decides, leaving sharing out of the question. They all know that Adam needs every drop of the relaxing, warming drink. Henri pulls out a wad of notes. "I got an advance. My treat. We'll have dinner too."

Sam's hand in his pocket unclenches and the few francs he has left stay there. It means another day of relatively tolerable temperature for Adam in the apartment they share. Sam could cry from relief, but he laughs instead and slings an arm around Henri's shoulder. "Let me know when you get tired of Ezra," Sam jokes. "You can be the breadwinner and I'll stay at home, doing the dishes."

"I am always tired of Ezra," Henri says. "He is high maintenance."

"He's the only one who understands me when I'm _alta forte_ ," Ezra admits, looking at Henri as if he was the second coming of Christ. "He's the only one who understands."

"Like I would let anyone else have you," a soft voice purrs, mint-cold breath ghosting over Sam's ear. 

He jerks and turns, jittery with discomfort. "Monsieur Alighieri!"

"Mr Winchester." Lucifer makes a slight movement, almost a bow. "I see your brother is done with his poem." He reaches for it without asking permission, studying the title before he tilts his head back and laughs, full throated and honest. Then he's quiet for some time, his eyes following the lines, his mouth curling at the corners, tight.

Sam holds his breath. _God, don't let us lose our sanctuary,_ he prays, hoping Adam's recklessness doesn't have them out in the street immediately. They have nowhere to go, not when winter is on the doorstep, rattling the doorknob.

Lucifer puts the sheet down on the table, carefully placing it away from the glasses and the wine. He is quiet. Ten seconds pass by, Lucifer assessing them without a word. "It's talented," he finally says. "Quite talented. And rude. I am cruel, yes, but not that cruel." He purses his mouth. "Michael tells me that we are about to lose Adam if he doesn't get treatment soon."

Adam pales so fast it looks like he's about to faint. It is a low blow.

The words are daggers to Sam's heart. He is up from the chair before anyone else can say or do anything. "You and I have very different opinion of what cruel—"

"A moment. I am not done." Lucifer holds up a hand and Sam reins in his anger. "I would be willing to support Adam, pay him enough so that he can go to a sanatorium, to _Petit Fontainebleau_ , get the best treatment money can buy. His poems would be—"

"Why?" Now it's Sam's turn to interrupt. "You've never for a second considered helping him out of the goodness of your heart, Monsieur."

"True; my heart holds very little goodness at all, and no more than I can use myself. I am particular in my affections. As I said: I am not a good man, or a just man. I will even agree that your brother's writing holds some truth to it. But I am not the Devil, although some say that it isn't far off. All I want in return for Adam's continued good health is a chance to show you that I am not in league with Satan, or any other evil power, for that matter. I am cruel, true, but I am not without redeeming features. Let me prove it to you."

"To me? I— I don't understand." Sam squints, as if it makes him able to distill the essence of what Monsieur Alighieri is saying. "Shouldn't you be concerned about Adam's opinion instead?"

"No," Lucifer replies sharply. "He is not the one I want at my disposal."

Sam blinks, unable to follow. "What?"

"Have dinner with me, Mr Winchester. At least a few times. If you are still in favor of me, being Satan incarnate, I'll release you from your promise."

"And that's it? A few dinners in exchange for Adam's life?"

"Yes. If you want to put it that way. Adam's life for your compliance."

"Are you mad?" Sam gasps for air in the dark room, although he knows he is breathing, the smell of sweat and cabbage that always seems to hang in the air here evidence enough. "You are willing to use a fortune on Adam for a dinner with me?"

"Mad? No, I don't think so. Would it help?"

"No." Maybe Lucifer Alighieri really _is_ mad? Sam isn't in doubt that Monsieur Alighieri has looked at him with desire, but this is insane. Why would anyone pay for Adam's stay at a sanatorium and get nothing but his company in return?

"No, it wouldn't help, or no, you won't have dinner with me?"

Sam takes a deep breath, catching Ezra's eyes. 

For once Ezra seems rattled. He nods, telling Sam in no words that he needs to take the deal. "We've done worse things for art," Ezra says. "Adam's works will reach the sizable audience they deserve." Ezra is kind enough not to add that it also buys Adam more time to write. More life to live.

Adam stands, shaking. "No, I can't. Michael—"

"Yes," Sam says firmly, looking Monsieur Alighieri in the eye. "Yes. We have a deal."

Lucifer Alighieri looks like a cat who'd caught a mouse, had fun drowning it in the cream and eaten all of it afterwards. He holds out his hand. "Sunday. I'll send my chauffeur. For now, eat and drink on the house, you and your friends look as if you could use it. Get the younger Mr Winchester what he needs; I'll make sure that he is transported to Petit Fontainebleau before we meet again."

Sam's determined eyes meet with Ezra's angry glare. Adam's new poem won't be the last to mock Lucifer Alighieri. Ezra has a mean streak; Sam remembers vividly when Ezra and Henri made fun of Amy Lowell and her rotund form, Ezra attending a party wearing nothing but a barrel whilst reciting a poem that did little to praise Ms Lowell the _Amygist_ , as Ezra dubbed her, refusing to count her as one of his and Wyndham's imagist movement. 

"How many bottles of Cahors 1912 do you think we are able to consume before curtain call," Ezra asks. "At least let us make it expensive to be so overbearing to the world's greatest poets."

It makes Sam laugh. Monsieur Alighieri's arrogance matches Ezra's. Barely.

As it turns out, dining on the house is great. Hem, Ford and a few other poets and artists show up, and the evening turns into a celebration of Adam, one last hurrah before he is off to Petit Fontainebleau. It's not a desperate celebration, no, it's a celebration of hope. For the first time in almost a year, Sam allows himself the luxury of eating until he is full. He is so full of _escargots_ and chicken _Bresse_ that it is impossible for him to get down as much as bite of the delicious berry _clafoutis_. But the scent of fresh fruit lingers, and it makes Sam happy to see that Adam takes a second helping when H.D. decides to show a hitherto entirely unknown motherly side and dumps a large piece on his plate.

Even Michael Alighieri joins them at the end of the blessedly clown-free show. He pulls a chair up next to Adam, sipping a glass of the wine that his brother pays for, one hand resting on the back of Adam's chair like a bulwark, protective and strong. Adam doesn't seem to mind. They lean towards each other, keeping a safe distance, far enough for Sam to overhear them. 

"Maybe I was too... I should have acted earlier," Monsieur Alighieri admits. "I will not go against my brother now, but I would have done the same, had I not known that you were too proud to accept. Maybe I should have insisted."

Wisely, Adam doesn't say anything. It is too late anyway. The deed is done and the deal is sealed. Three dinners with Lucifer Alighieri in exchange for Adam's life is still a bargain.

Sam is too drunk to wait for the other shoe to drop, but he is damned sure that he's going to look for it tomorrow, and he is even more sure that he'll have found it before Sunday.


	2. Chapter 2

The week passes by as swift as one of the heavy fall storms; a flurry of preparations and dark melancholy. Saturday comes alive with a teary face; all gray skies and rain. Sam is both happy and sad, his emotions shifting like the weather. He finds time to sit for a while, writing a letter for Dean; Ford Madox Ford is going to America and has promised to forward it from New York when he arrives. The letter adds another layer to Sam's dark mood. He misses Dean intensely. Only Dean has a life in Kansas, children, a wife, and a job as an engineer at the Chevrolet Division of General Motors Company. Dean doesn't love men, not the way Sam and Adam do, and he is safe from the persecution that drove Sam and Adam to Paris in the first place. Dean did not commit felony by following his heart.

No matter what he does, Sam has lost a brother, or as good as. Now Adam is going away, and Sam is worried. Adam is going to be in good hands, but they won't be able to see each other much -- Petit Fontainebleau is hours away by bus, and it's a luxury that Sam cannot afford too often, not even with Adam settled comfortably, with access to good food and medicine and everything else he needs to stay alive.

Sam goes through their small apartment, making sure that Adam's few belongings are packed neatly in the battered cardboard suitcase he brought with him from the States. Sam wraps a piece of cloth around a framed photograph, the three of them together, Adam, Dean and he, Dean's arms around their shoulders, spread like wings, protective and all-encompassing. Sam rests a hand there, at the picture, as if he could wish them back to the time when they were young and healthy and happy. Before _life_ happened. Forcing down the lump in his throat, Sam closes the lid and ties a piece of string around the suitcase. He carries it into the corridor before he knocks on the door to Adam's room, softly, as not to startle him.

Adam is asleep in the old armchair, a blanket wrapped around his thin body. Sam sighs. If only Adam was as sharp and strong as his pen.

"It's time," Sam says, gently caressing Adam's pale hand. "Monsieur Alighieri will be here soon."

Sam doesn't like the Alighieri-brothers, but he is warming up to Michael-- _he_ doesn't send his chauffeur to pick up Adam as if he was a parcel to be fetched and delivered, but has instead let Adam know that he will be the one accompanying him to the sanatorium in Briis-sous-Forges. Sam is relieved that he won't have to deal with the other Alighieri too.

Adam stretches and yawns like a cat, one of the thin, battered ghosts that live in the backyard. "I wonder why he's so kind this to me," he says, putting words to Sam's thoughts. "It's not as if we can ever be together. I hurt him... not taking his offer until it was too late."

"Maybe he's just a good person," Sam says. "Maybe it doesn't matter to him that you aren't well."

"Gift horse," Adam says and yawns again. "If he was a good person, I wouldn't like him so much. He's like Ezra, you know."

"What? All élitist posturing and a heart of gold?"

"More like a heart of stone and a lot of posturing, yes." Adam laughs a laughter that ends in a violent cough. "But maybe his heart has a weak spot somewhere. But Ez is nice in comparison."

"Ez is an ass, despite his selflessness, and we both know it." Sam hands Adam a clean handkerchief, careful not to touch him. It's by far enough with one tuberculous _Dame aux Camélias_ in the family; and anyway Sam would like to die of old age. "Go wash up before your guardian angel is here."

*

Monsieur Alighieri is not alone when he knocks on the door a few minutes later. There's a short man with him, one who looks as mischievous and alive as Michael Alighieri is stiff and boring.

"Messieurs." Sam opens the door and steps back. "Adam will be ready in a moment."

"I would have expected no less," Michael says coldly. "This is my brother Gabriel," he adds, not caring for a proper introduction. "Dr Gabriel Alighieri."

" _Enchanté de vous connaître_." Gabriel is vastly more forthcoming than his brother. He shakes Sam's hand. He has a firm grip and a smile in his eyes. "I've read your poetry, Monsieur. Also a pleasure."

"Pleased to meet you." Sam smiles too, as if there is some sudden connection building between them. He already likes Michael's brother better than the rest of the family and he has known him less than thirty seconds.

"My brother studied under Dr Albert Calmette," Michael interrupts. "He is a member of Le Ligue du Nord contre la Tuberculose. He--"

"I'm working with Dr Calmette on a vaccine, yes, thank you, Michael." Gabriel cuts his brother off with a glare. "I'll explain to Monsieur Winchester, you go find your Adam."

"Call me Gabriel," Monsieur Alighieri says as soon as Michael disappears into Adam's room. "And I'll call you Sam. With your permission, of course, but all this correctness drives me crazy and I have a feeling we're going to meet often. I don't care for formal. Also, I know a lot about you already: Lucifer is rarely infatuated with human beings -- in general or in particular -- but he sure is talkative when the lightning finally hits."

"Oh. I--"

"Great! I knew we'd be friends. Anyone able to make my big bro go all soft and almost human has to be worth his salt."

"What--" Sam feels breathless; the small hurricane that is Gabriel Alighieri is overwhelming.

"What? What's going to happen is that I am going to treat your brother. We don't have a cure, but we do what we can. What we _do_ have, though, are experiments that work. A vaccine. With your permission, I am offering you and Adam's friends access to it -- it means that Adam will be able to live a close-to-normal life around his friends. It's at an experimental stage, but we know now that it works well in most cases. Both Michael and Lucifer have got it; we're merely waiting for it to work. Takes six weeks."

Now Sam truly cannot breathe. "I read about that. The vaccine. Dr Calmette and M. Guérin's experiments. You mean..."

"What I mean is that I will do anything for Michael to have what he wants. I will do anything to keep your brother alive, and we are not without options. Ultimately we can operate, collapse one lung as to give the tissue time to heal, which means that we are able to revert the disease to a pre-symptomatic state, more or less. There is a doctor in Belgium who has discovered interesting properties in fungi in regards to preventing bacterial growth; we might join the testing to see if it has any effects on tuberculosis. The vaccine -- providing none of you are pre-symptomatic already -- will make it safe to be in Adam's company." Gabriel's smiles, wicked. "Even in more... intimate situations."

Sam should be shocked, but he isn't. Instead he laughs, happiness bubbling inside him. "You're saying that you're giving us this so that your brother can kiss my brother?"

In the other room, Adam laughs too, of something else, something Michael has said or done. Michael's laughter is dark like chocolate and coffee and leaves a bitter aftertaste. If only Adam and his perhaps-lover would always laugh like that, if they could be happy and carefree and relaxed without worries for Adam's health, or Michael's.

Gabriel understands because he turns to look over his shoulder, another smile dragging at his mouth at the sound of Michael's pleased laughter. "Yes. Nothing wrong with that. Your brother is very attractive." Gabriel gives Sam an exaggerated, appreciative look. "Runs in the family, I guess." He pats Sam on the shoulder. "I probably shouldn't look at you like that; my wife Kali has an uncanny way of knowing where my eyes have been. Come on, _mon ami_ , let's get our brothers out of here before we do something we'll both regret."

*

On the trip back to Paris, Sam sleeps most of the way. He is battered and bruised, sore from needles and scrapes and little burned on the chest where Gabriel used some kind of Röntgen ray contraption to take radiographs of his lungs to ensure that he is not infected. Now Sam has the Bugatti all to himself, apart from the driver in the front seat. Curled up underneath a luxurious ermine plaid, Sam allows himself to rest without using too much time to worry. Michael has promised to stay with Adam until the test results are ready. With Dr Gabriel working at the sanatorium, able to get there on short notice, Adam is safer and more comfortable than he has been in years. It is not that Sam wants to be rid of Adam, but he needs rest, he needs pause, he needs not to worry all the time.

He can worry about the price for the short break tomorrow, when Lucifer fetches him so that he can pay the first installment of his debt. A dinner for Adam's wellbeing is a bargain, and Sam thinks that the other shoe probably will drop when Monsieur Alighieri asks for sex. And he will. Sam has seen how Lucifer Alighieri looks at him, hungry and lewd.

When they reach _Montparnasse_ , Sam decides that he doesn't want to go home. He doesn't want to come back to rooms filled to the brim with silence and damp fall air. "To Le Cabaret Perdu, _s'il vous plaît_ " Sam demands, much in favor of spending an evening with his friends in a more cheery environment. Some of them are going to be there, he's sure; maybe Ford is throwing a goodbye party before his departure on Monday. There is always something going on at Le Perdu.

The huge blue car stops right outside the cabaret's entrance, and before Sam can react, the chauffeur has opened the door for him, as if he is someone important. Sam fidgets for a second, unsure whether he is to fold the plaid neatly before he exits, but decides against it. "Thank you,"he says instead and gets out of the car. The driver treats him like he has deserved the attention and consideration and bows politely for goodbye.

Luckily Mademoiselle Ruby is not at the ticket office, and Sam is let inside with no fuss. The show has begun; M. Castiel is serenading M. Inias, his innocent look belying the outrageously lewd lyrics. Sam looks around, squinting in the dark, until he sees Ez's huge hair flashing red as a spotlight turns and slides over it. H.D. and Ford are there, and Wyndham Lewis, a man Sam cannot stand. He didn't come to Paris to listen to more drivel about his preference for men, and Wyndham is infamous for his dislike of everything that isn't like Lewis himself: Jews, homosexuals, Communists. Why Ezra endures his company is a riddle, but Sam suspects that he does it for the arts. Despite his unpleasant personality Wyndham is talented, one of the best painters that Sam has ever encountered. Maybe Ez is merely politically inept since he doesn't disagree openly with Lewis? Sam shrugs as his own thoughts. He is too tired for politics, and he certainly is too tired for the inevitable discussion that will happen at some point if he joins his friends at their table. Henri is elsewhere, maybe at his workshop, carving. Not a bad decision. He isn't fond of Wyndham, either.

Lost in his thoughts, Sam startles when a waiter steps up to him.

"Monsieur Alighieri requests your company, M'sieur. At his table."

Out of the ashes, into the fire. "It's not Sunday," Sam says, shaking his head. He can't deal with Lucifer Alighieri just yet.

"He said you'd say that. He asks only that you join him for a drink. He said to tell you you looked like a man who needed one."

Sam is sure he looks _exactly_ like that. "All right. One drink."

He follows the waiter to the best table in the theater, secluded behind pillars, but with a brilliant view.

Monsieur Alighieri gets up to greet him, hand held out in greeting. "Monsieur Winchester, what an _expected_ surprise."

"You were spying on me?" Sam takes the offered hand, keeping in a gasp when Lucifer brings his hand to his lips and places a kiss there, leaving little doubt of his intentions. Sam takes back his hand as fast as he can without being downright rude. He suppresses the need to wipe the kiss off it against his pants.

"Of course not. I couldn't help but notice at several other occasions that Mr Lewis seems to work only too well as a repellent."

Sam doesn't deny it. "Indeed he does. Monsieur Gaudier tells me that Lewis is to return to London next week. Such a pity." A waiter pulls out the chair for Sam and he sits down, looking up at his host.

"A pity for the poor Londoners who never did us any harm, apart from a few ill-advised wars, that is." Monsieur Alighieri says, keeping a straight face. "Let me know what will chase away the acrid and unpleasant taste of prejudice and idiocy. Cognac? Absinthe? Cointreau? Ah," he says and waves at the waiter. "Bring all of it, and some food for Monsieur; he's had a long day. _Quenelles et Coq au vin avec gratin dauphinois_ ," he demands. "And a bottle of our best Bordeaux."

It's too much, but Sam's stomach overrules him at the mere idea of pike dumplings and of tender chicken with potato gratin. He doesn't want to owe Monsieur Alighieri anything but the three dinners he has promised him, yet all Sam manages is a weak, "thank you," because he _is_ grateful. He is given another day that ends with a full stomach, and Sam appreciates it. "Thank you, Monsieur."

"And that leads us to the evening's most important task, apart from keeping the appalling Mr Lewis at a distance: I would like you to address me as Lucifer, if you have no objections?"

Sam has a lot of objections, but none of them concerns the formality of the way they address each other. He nods his acceptance. "You earned the right."

"Thank you."

The waiter returns and places a selection of bottles on the table. Lucifer grabs two tulip glasses and pours for both of them. He offers a glass to Sam. The golden drink smells of mahogany and port and spices, unlike any Cognac that Sam has ever tasted before.

"Santé, Sam," Lucifer says and raises his glass.

"Santé, Lucifer." Sam looks Lucifer in the eye, only a brief look over the rim of his glass before he takes a sip. The full-bodied liquid makes his taste buds explode from sheer pleasure.

" _Premier Cru_ Cognac. Nothing is too good for you."

"It's... amazing." Sam closes his eyes and breathes in and out slowly, enjoying the notes of wood and leather. He opens them again. "Yes. Amazing."

Lucifer nods, as if it's obvious. "You'll never need for anything."

Sam frowns. He has promised Lucifer to go out for dinner, that's all. "I have what I need."

"Of course. That was... unkind of me to suggest otherwise. At least allow me to treat you with what I have, when I have you at my disposal. But let's not waste time on details; let's eat and drink and enjoy the show. I have hired a magician, one of Gabriel's friends... you met him today, right?"

Sam nods, undecided whether he should reply or drink some more Cognac. The Cognac wins.

"Gabriel always had little respect for anything," Lucifer muses. "He's a good doctor, though. He respects science."

"He offered..." Sam rubs his arm where Gabriel tortured him with needles and scalpel. "A vaccine." It's not exactly a question, and again, it might be.

Lucifer is not slow. "Had it a few weeks ago. Michael, too. It's still in development."

"So you think that we'll be safe? It's safe?"

"That's what Gabriel tells me. I wouldn't have let him try it on me otherwise." Lucifer smiles. "That's a yes. I won't let you come to any harm."

"For a person who barely knows me you are remarkably protective." 

"For a person who barely knows you I am remarkably interested in getting to know you better. A great deal better." Lucifer stares at Sam with what Adam somewhat unflattering called his 'snowfall eyes'. "I am only protecting people I like, Sam."

Sam has to take another drink of the Cognac to feel warm, not that Lucifer is cold, but his eyes seem to penetrate every defense that Sam has, leaving him naked and open. "I don't know what to say."

"Really? As I recall it, your poetry proves that you do have a way with words. I refuse to believe it is limited to the action of putting pen to paper."

"Touché."

"I assume it is Mr Pound who taught you to use words sparsely? I agree; however I would take his advice and add to it F.S. Flint's rules: _Use a direct treatment of the 'thing', whether subjective or objective. Use no word that does not contribute to presentation_. Isn't that how those Imagistes of yours want any intellectual or emotional complex described, Sam?"

Sam convinces himself in no time that more Cognac will be helpful. He pours himself another glass. "Where, exactly, are you going with that? We are talking about the _image_ as an instant in time; a mental picture that describes an emotion. It is precision, surgical precision. It is anything but rhetoric. Rhetoric is dressing up meaning and emotion with words, the truth of a tree concealed with ornaments that do little to enhance its beauty."

"Mr Pound told me that the Japanese write these images to perfection," Lucifer says. "I read William Carlos Williams, and I tend to think that we... Westerners do not understand the form at all. Williams speaks about a wheelbarrow and leaves me bored. Bashō, on the other hand, writes _Inazuma ya, yami no kata; go'i no koe_ , and I wake in the darkness, the night heron's cry sharp and sudden like the lightning. The poem makes me breathless, choking on its instant clarity and the mood it evokes."

Sam has to drink some more. This is a side of Lucifer he had not expected. "You read Japanese ideogrammes?"

"Kanji. Yes. I distrust Mr Pound's Chinese translations, and I had friends traveling in those parts of the world bring me dictionaries from Japan and China. However, Mr Pound's short poems do hold the kind of quality that I find in Matsuo Bashō and his contemporaries."

The waiter returns with their food, interrupting their discussion. If the Cognac smelled nice, the food is an orgy made from the inspired mixing of meat, fresh vegetables and spices. Sam's mouth waters, and right that instant the only thing he can think of is how hungry he is. He impales a potato, watching it bleed cream and cheese before he ends its suffering by eating it. He makes a moan. Le Cabaret Perdu might not be a first class establishment, but the food doesn't get any better. "Where were you going with that?" Sam finally asks when he has chewed and swallowed.

"I wanted to emphasize the importance of truth and clarity, in speech as well as in writing."

"Ah." Sam finds it important to taste the wine that Lucifer pours for him. He is a little dizzy. Lack of food, or maybe he should slow down, leave the wine. He takes a bite of a quenelle. The butter roasted bread crumb batter melts in his mouth and the perfectly cooked fish falls apart on his tongue. It's so good he could cry.

"So let me be clear, Sam." Lucifer pulls him out of his food-induced trance and back to reality.

Sam nods in agreement. It's good. He can eat and answer at the same time. He finds what little is left of his manners and wipes his mouth with the pristine white napkin. "Please."

"I believe in truth. Most people believe me to be a liar because the pure truth seldom is pliant and comfortable. There are no detours, no shielding of the unpleasant and the ugly. I am like your poems: one of the gritty, disturbing ones. I am the lightning in the dark, the shrill cries of night herons that ruin your sleep." Lucifer reaches across the table and caresses Sam's hand. It is contradicting everything, with calm strokes belying Lucifer's harsh words.

Sam forgets about food and wine and everything that isn't Lucifer and the raw intensity he exudes. That instant Lucifer is not merely a man that Sam finds attractive. He is fire and wind, ice and storm, and it is breathtaking.

"I will not be satisfied with three dinners," Lucifer says. "I will not be satisfied at all. But it is what you offered me, and I will take what little I can get. I will never force my company on you, but I ask you to let me convince you: I will give you everything you want, and I will never betray you. Michael berates me that I love to soon and too fiercely; I get disappointed and angry when I cannot bend the world to my will. I try not to let that happen. I try to keep myself in line, and yet I know I need to explain to you that I am passionate when there is something I want because I do not want to scare you.

Sam's pleasant alcohol buzz fades a little. "And you want me?" It is somewhat disturbing to be the target of so much need. Sam is not sure what to do with it.

"Yes."

It is as clear and without ornaments as can be. "For what?" Sam can be blunt too.

"For my lover, if I can convince you."

"It is not a question of conviction; it's a question of emotions. Convince my emotions, and I'm yours," Sam retorts, hiding behind a quickly put up façade of indifference. Lucifer's lover? He hadn't thought as far; he had merely believed that he would have to pay for Adam's treatment with his body at some point. But this is different, very different. Lucifer is different from anything Sam had believed or thought about him.

"Which is why three dinners are not enough. I am a difficult man, and I might take some time to get used to. I want you to grant me that time, until either you -- Or I -- find that enough is enough."

"So if I get up right now and tell you I don't want to see you again, and walk away, you'll accept that?"

"Yes."

Sam sure is in favor of brevity, of words without decoration. Maybe he is a little in favor of Lucifer, too, mostly because he so willingly hands over the power of their brief relationship to Sam. "Fine. Yes."

Lucifer doesn't say anything, he merely sits there, a man waiting for the guillotine to fall swiftly and sever his hope from his body.

"Can I have some more of that Cognac," Sam asks and smiles, suddenly able to relax. "I think we need to get drunk."

Lucifer laughs as he lets out a baited breath, and his laughter becomes ragged from lack of oxygen. "Everything you want," he says and pours Sam's glass full of amber and sunshine. "I told you, didn't I? I'll give you _everything_ , Sam."


	3. Chapter 3

Sam is hot and his head hurts. He pushes off the comforter, groaning at the heat that emanates from the roaring fireplace. He forces down nausea and clings to the headboard for a moment, willing the world to stop turning. "Urgh," he groans, unable to manage something intelligible. He takes a deep breath, and then another, waiting until his stomach settles. Only then does he recognize the smell of coffee, the scent of lavender and firewood, the gentle brush of silk and down against his chest.

"What the..." Sam turns over, careful not to unsettle his stomach. He decides that he needs to open his eyes because one thing is certain: he is not at home. If he is, his dingy apartment has improved vastly overnight, and so has the service. Leaning against the headboard, fluffy pillows supporting him, a heavy, warm, wonderful comforter covering his naked body, Sam braves the morning.

The sight that meets him is surprising. Not in the sense that he is surprised that he is not in his own dank, damp room, but the level of luxury is surprising, overwhelming, exorbitant. Mahogany pillars rise towards the high, elaborately decorated ceiling. Paintings, some of which Sam recognizes because he has seen them displayed in galleries, cover the walls. High windows are covered with heavy velvet curtains. The floor is decked with plush, deep rugs and the bed itself is a wide wonder of softness. On a marble-topped side table someone has placed a tray with a silver coffee pot. There is a cup placed next to it, thin bone china so delicate that Sam is afraid to touch it. He pokes at it with a finger. It's too tempting. He pours himself a cup and sits back in bed, thinking.

Problem is that if he didn't die and go to Heaven overnight, he has actually no idea where he is and why he's naked in a bed that so obviously isn't his own. Sam scans the room. His clothes are nowhere to be seen. It isn't particularly hard to come up with a theory: the last thing he remembers is that he was drinking at Le Perdu with Lucifer, so clearly Lucifer has brought him here. Wherever 'here' is.

He drinks some coffee: one cup as fast as possible, without burning himself. Another goes down slower, Sam taking time to nurture his headache and the taste of very good coffee, a few minutes of relaxed peace before he faces the world and the situation he's in.

Done with the second cup, Sam puts it back on the tray. There is a small silver bell next to the pot. Maybe to summon a valet or servant? Seeing that his other choice is to explore the surroundings wearing nothing but a sheet or a curtain, Sam picks it up and shakes it vigorously. The clear sound has barely died out before quick, muted steps are heard from outside. There's a sharp rap on the door.

"Enter!" Sam pulls the comforter up to his shoulders.

"Good morning, Monsieur." A young girl, entirely foreign to Sam, steps inside, a small pile of clothes in her arms. "Monsieur Alighieri would like to see you in the salon when you are ready. He took the liberty to have your clothes cleaned; he asked me to apologize on his behalf; he hopes that these will be adequate in size and fit. He had the laundry maid let down the hem."

Sam is quiet for a few seconds. "Er, thank you. I'm... where am I, exactly?"

The girl laughs. "At Monsieur Alighieri's residence, silly." Her eyes widen and she whips a hand in front of her mouth. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I didn't mean to disrespect--"

"That's fine. I'm... just... " Sam wants to tell the girl that they are the same, that he isn't some honored guest, merely a stupid, drunk guy that Lucifer brought home like a stray dog. "Is this Monsieur Alighieri's..."

Maybe the girl has been in Lucifer's household long enough to understand. "Guest room. Yes."

"Thank you!" Sam says with conviction. Of course his body has no telltale signs of... being in bed with someone for more than sleeping, but it's still a relief that Lucifer hasn't taken advantage of the situation.

"Your bath is ready," the maid says. "There is a bathrobe. Monsieur Alighieri asked me to tell you that breakfast will be served in half an hour." She walks through the room and puts the pile of clothes down on the bed. "Two doors and to the left. The salon is downstairs, across the hall." She shakes out the bathrobe and hands it to Sam before she leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.

*

Clean and smelling of exquisitely-scented soap, Sam walks downstairs. When he moves, the fabric feels strangely soft on his skin: the pants are narrow, the vest a little loose, but Sam has looked in the mirror and the surprising hand-me-down cashmere suit fits him better than his own clothes. The light, brown fabric is warm and nothing like the hard, cheap worsted woolen suits that Sam owns. A white cotton shirt and a green tie made of what Sam thinks must be silk make him look like high society, not as the poor, starving writer he was yesterday.

Sam feels like he's in a dream -- one that might or might not turn into a nightmare. Only time will tell. Yesterday, he was drunk, but not so drunk as not remember Lucifer's possessive declaration of intent. Sam will do anything for his brothers, but he is not for sale, not for a suit, not for a meal, not for pretty promises. If he gives in to Lucifer, it will be because his heart is in it.

He stops halfway down the carpet-covered stairs, breathing in, sighing, needing a moment before he continues downstairs to face the man of his daydreams and nightmares. Sam meant what he told Lucifer yesterday. If Lucifer convinces his emotions, Sam is willing. He is without doubt attracted to Lucifer -- how can he not be? Lucifer is handsome, intelligent, charming and on top of it rich and very generous. Sam looks down. The hall is marble-tiled and richly decorated, a tasteful collection of antique furniture and modern art. Sam doesn't care about Lucifer's fortune. He cares about Adam. That is the only deal he will make, quid pro quo, that Lucifer may prove to him that _he_ , too, is worth Sam's attention. For his generosity and for his decency Lucifer deserves a real chance, not just Sam going through the motions to get their dinners over as fast as possible to secure Adam's continued treatment. If Lucifer wants to woo, Sam will let him woo.

A butler enters the hall. "Monsieur Winchester, Monsieur Alighieri is expecting you." The butler knocks on a door and opens it. "In the salon, _s'il vous plaît_."

Sam hurries down the stairs. "Thank you..."

" _Bonheur_ , Monsieur." The elderly man bows politely, as if Sam is an honored guest.

"Thank you, Bonheur." Sam nods, finding the entire situation surreal. He walks into the salon, attempting to look as if he is addressing butlers all the time. Bonheur closes the door behind him and Sam feels like he just stepped into a tiger's cage, escape route cut off, back against the wall.

Lucifer gets up. "Good morning, Sam. Did you sleep well?" He waves off his valet as the servant attempts to step in, helping Sam get seated. "Leave us, Claude." The young man disappears and Lucifer offers Sam the chair next to his own.

Feeling no less caught up in a surreal dream, Sam sits down. "Yes. I guess. Erm, thank you. For getting me into bed and..."

"Not my doing. Bonheur informed me this morning, and in no gentle terms, that I fell from grace, being too full for utterance. In short: I have a headache, and Claude had to undress us both. Coffee?"

Sam laughs, because that is something he'd have liked to see, the haughty, arrogant Monsieur Alighieri being too drunk to get into bed by his own doing. "I'm glad it wasn't just me. And yes, please."

"Of course I would never have taken advantage of the situation," Lucifer says casually as he pours coffee for them both, thus answering the question Sam would never have dared ask. "Forcing oneself on an unwilling partner is so incredibly _gauche_." Lucifer puts down the silver coffee pot and put his hand on top of Sam's. "You come to me willingly, or not at all."

"I wonder whether you are set on overturning every preconceived notion I have about you," Sam replies, cocking his head as he watches Lucifer's face. "You are nothing like I thought you'd be." Without thinking, Sam turns his hand under Lucifer's, his fingers sliding into place, their fingers braided together. Sam likes the smile on Lucifer's lips, the soft expression in his eyes.

"I don't know which notions you have, but I will never treat you with anything but respect," Lucifer says and strokes Sam's hand. "You are not a toy that I can play with at my leisure, although there are games I would like to play--for our mutual pleasure. If and when you will allow me."

The vague reference to sex makes Sam blush. It isn't as if he hadn't thought about it before, when Lucifer was merely the sleazy owner of Le Perdu. Before Sam had gotten a hint of the man behind the arrogant, dominant façade. "I don't know." This time it is with reluctance that Sam pulls his hand out of Lucifer's grip. "I'm not... not yet."

"You don't owe me anything." Lucifer's smile doesn't fade. He moves his hand to a breadbasket and offers it to Sam. It's filled with delicious-smelling buns, still warm.

"Apart from three dinners?" Sam takes a bun and puts it on the plate.

"Apart from three dinners."

"Tonight?"

"I wondered if I could interest you in lunch first, maybe a drive, you and me; the weather is fine, and I have just purchased a _Benz_ 10 PS Tourer. 75 kilometers per hour, Sam. It is a fantastic car."

Sam thinks about it when he butters the bun. He hadn't thought that he'd spend so much time with Lucifer, but somehow it has an allure of its own, not to have to go home to the empty apartment, Adam's room abandoned. "I should work," he says, and it isn't exactly a lie. He has rent to pay, food and wood to buy. He needs to write to live, and because he _must_ write, before the words get too many and overflow.

"I'll make sure to escort you home tonight, before midnight, and without getting us drunk." Lucifer knows how to sweeten the offer. "You'll be able to work better if you are full and rested."

"I'll be lazy and sleepy," Sam retorts. "A hungry writer is a busy writer." There is a truth to it. Sam finds that being happy isn't good for his artistic endeavors: if he is too content he tends to drift from the art and needs to rein himself in to do actual work. Not that it happens often: he has gone hungry for years.

"Maybe you got used to famine? Miss Stein is rich, and she writes wonderful poetry, and so does Miss Lowell. I am sure you would never let your stomach conquer your brain."

"Depends," Sam says. "If the food is as good as this--" He holds up the bottom half of the bun. "--my brain is willing to surrender any time."

"It is _one_ day," Lucifer argues. "Allow yourself this, Sam. Allow _me_ this," he says quietly, with an intensity that gets to Sam. Lucifer _wants_ it so badly, and Sam somehow gets the feeling that it is not the want of a spoiled child -- no, it is something that matters to Lucifer, matters deeply.

"All right. But I won't be at your disposal when it suits you." Sam needs to draw the line somewhere. "I'll give you today and I shall return to the ashes at midnight."

"And I shall return with the a slipper of pure gold and you shall be my true bride," Lucifer teases, maybe with a pinch of seriousness to it that makes Sam warm all over.

"I admire your tenacity," Sam says and gets another bun. They really are delicious.

*

Adam wakes up after a long nap. The sun is warm, the air cool, but it does him good, the crisp fall air and the large, clean dry room he has been given. It's a huge difference from the dark, damp apartment, the best Sam could afford. It is no fault of Sam's, of course, Adam would never blame Sam for their poor conditions, that is all on him; he's the one who cannot work too well, cannot endure. Had it not been for Sam, Adam would have been dead by now. Adam is quick to anger, but he would never sink that low as to blame Sam for something that isn't his fault.

He rests for some time, watching the blue sky and the orange and brown leaves that whirl past the windows. A few dare visit him, landing on the white tiles like exhausted birds. One is rust with dark brown trim, another still green and young, ripped from the branches by the unrelenting wind. Others are blood and earth or merry yellow. Next to him, on the table near his bed, someone has placed a plate and a pot underneath a tea cozy. There is a salad, fish terrine and bread, all of it fresh and delicious. Adam can feel his appetite stretch and yawn, as always late and lazy. No wonder he is thin. He grabs the fork and cuts off a corner of the terrine; it is still warm. Little pieces of salmon tease his taste buds and lure them into wanting more. The spicy taste of lemon and dill sauce makes Adam hungry, hungrier than he has been for a long time. He eats is all, faster than he'd thought possible. Full, he sits back in bed, heavy covers pulled up to his neck to keep warm. He doesn't want to close the windows; it's the purpose of his treatment, exposing him to cold, clear air to make him breathe easier. It works, or maybe it is the lack of exposure to dusty firewood and leaky stoves, Adam doesn't know.

He pours himself a cup from the pot underneath the tea cozy. It is some herbal tea, Adam thinks. It is anise-scented, and he senses mint, lavender and rose chips. He drinks all of it, because the hot drink soothes his sore throat and eases his breathing. While pouring himself a second cup, someone knocks on the door. Cup in hand, Adam croaks an, "Enter."

It's Michael.

"Why are you here?" Adam demands immediately, knowing he behaves like a dog, biting out of fear. "You shouldn't expose yourself to the bacterium. To me."

Not at all bothered by Adam's direct approach, Michael shakes his head. "You are not your illness."

"You're an idiot."

Michael's gloomy face turns more gloomy. "You are rude."

Adam doesn't care to deny it. He has done his best to chase Michael away for months. He's been rude, unreasonable, childish, demanding, stand-offish, mocking, and none of it has done the job. There has been times when he'd been too tired to fight Michael's advances, and he wish that he didn't have to. For Michael's sake. "Go away. I don't want you here. It'll be my fault if you get ill too."

"I am not as stupid as to break the rules for our... interaction. Gabriel ensured me that if we--"

"Gabriel this, Gabriel that," Adam mocks. Not even anger works. Michael's stubbornness vastly exceeds his own. "I am not getting rid of you, am I?" Adam doesn't understand. Sam and Michael... they are both healthy, they could both have good lives if they gave up catering to a man already awaiting execution. Why they won't leave him alone is beyond him.

"I assume you have yet to understand the concept of loyalty." Michael's mouth contracts into a displeased grimace.

"Sure. Because I don't have a brother who should have been named Fido rather than Sam, and who is currently working himself to death to keep me alive," Adam snaps. It hurts him to see Sam exhausted and thin, all the time refusing to take anything for himself that Adam could have instead. Food, sleep, warmth, comfort. It should be endearing, but sometimes it scares Adam, the extent to which Sam is willing to go, sacrificing everything for his survival. "I am breathing because my brother gave me everything he had, so don't patronize me." Adam breathes in deeply to lash out again, a grave mistake. He fights for air, coughing violently, a clean handkerchief the only barrier between Michael and slow death.

The painful attack subsides and Adam hurries to dispose of the bloody cloth into the bin. He ignores Michael as he disinfects his hands and face, painstakingly thorough. Without looking up, collected now, he tells Michael quietly, "Don't belittle my brother's suffering. I understand loyalty because I see it every day. I did not ask for it; Sam would have been better off to let me die." He's dead already, it is a question of time. Sam could have spared himself, lived a better life. It's not that Adam is particularly grateful; Sam took it upon himself willingly, Adam certainly didn't ask for his help. Still, he loves his brother, and it only adds to the suffering to see Sam spread thin and transparent with hard work and hunger for his sake.

"My apologies." Michael looks even more gloomy. "I might have forgotten that I have other means, more resources. That your brother's care looks inadequate does not mean that his intentions are."

"You got that right," Adam says. "Finally. Now tell me, did you only bring me here so you could torment me with your annoying better-than-thou attitude?" Adam makes a weak smile that belies the harsh words. "Because I have other things to do than to listen to your drivel. Writing, eating, dying."

"First of all, _I_ did not bring you here, unless you count the means of transportation. My brother did." Michael says it as if it displeases him immensely.

Adam is sure it does. He has refused Michael's offers for months, and perhaps that was wrong. He could have prevented yet another brotherly sacrifice if he hadn't been too proud to accept Michael's help. Now it's too late, it's out of his hands, and it seems as if the entire Alighieri clan is suddenly involved in his continued well-being. "I should have let you," Adam admits. "I was stubborn."

"Yes." Michael doesn't offer Adam a way out.

"You are wasting your time. If I'm lucky I have, what? Five years left, maybe less. I don't understand what you want with me. I am dead, Michael, and if you are not careful, so are you."

"I had the vaccine. Gabriel ensures me it is safe. As soon as he has run the test and he is sure that I am immune, we don't have to... stay apart. It's a few weeks." Michael sighs. "I have made my feelings clear to you. I am certain that you understood what I said."

"Do I look particularly stupid to you?" Adam closes his eyes. Oh, he remembers only too well Michael's serious face, the tender words, the declaration of love and adoration. It makes his heart hurt, because despite everything, he is in love with Michael too. God, he is so in love, and it is painful, so painful to want so badly a man he can never have.

"No, but your behavior certainly is." Dr Alighieri steps into the room, all sunshine and smiles and so different from Michael's rain cloud personality as can be. "I'm not selling snake oil here, Winchester. I'm helping patients with tuberculosis regain their health, as well as providing them with the option of kissing their lovers without endangering them."

"Michael is not my lover," Adam states coldly. "And I am not a murderer."

Michael's face reveals little, but enough for Adam to see the hurt hidden underneath a thin layer of indifference.

"Oh, stop it. Who do you think you are fooling?" Gabriel shakes his head. "I am quite sure that you don't have to be caught _in flagrante_ to be in love. Just... give up and give in, why don't you? Michael is intolerable because of the pining. Take mercy in him, _please_!"

"I can't." Adam shakes his head.

"You won't."

"Then I won't."

"I suppose the operation I came here to talk to you about is all for nothing. Good. I can use my considerable talent as a surgeon and immunologist on someone who appreciates it. Have a nice life, kiddo. What little is left of it without my help." Gabriel turns on his heel and walks towards the door.

"Gabriel." Michael's voice is deep and dark and tense with pain.

"Yeah, yeah... I know." Gabriel looks as tense and sad as Michael. "I know."

Michael stands, looking down at Adam in the bed. "If only you would tell me not to have any hopes... if only you would deny me and set me free."

Adam looks at the two brothers. It is not as if he needs an epiphany; he sort of knows already that he is being unreasonable. He is a writer, not a doctor, and Dr Alighieri would never endanger his own brothers. That Gabriel supports Michael in his pursuit should be proof enough of that. Adam looks from Gabriel to Michael and back again. Doing the math is easy enough: with the vaccine and the operation and with proper housing and food, he _will_ live longer, and he won't be a danger to those around him who'd had the vaccine. If the operation works and the lungs heal, he can be with Michael for a long time. With the vaccine he won't be a danger to the man he loves.

Adam can continue to refuse what he is offered, but it will only cause more suffering. Michael's sadness is more than he can bear. Adam is not going to apologize, but he will change his mind. His pride will die before he does. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, before he is ready. "Will you allow us a moment alone, Doctor?" Adam pleads. "If you return later, I will be pleased to discuss the operation with you."

Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows. "So you aren't entirely lost. Good boy. See you later." He slams the door on his way out, careless and swift.

The white room is quiet, silence and sunshine filling it. Michael sits with his hands folded, elbows on his knees, eyes averted as if he's studying the floor or his shoes.

"I will never set you free, Michael." Adam fights to get up, naked feet on the cold floor. His pajamas are inadequate against the cool fall air, but it doesn't matter. "I will never tell you to leave. If the treatment works... You know the dangers and the risks. You do not walk into this blindfolded. I cannot in good conscience deny you if you want to pursue a relationship."

Michael's head snaps up. If Adam didn't know better he'd have thought that Michael's eyes were glazed over and teary.

"Yes," Adam says softly. "If the vaccine works on you, I'll be your lover, and you'll be mine. I love you, Michael."

It takes only a second, then he's in Michael's arms, Michael whispering unintelligible nonsense into his ear, gentle words that convey nothing but the feelings they have for each other. There are no kisses, only careful touching, but the mere hope that one day it will happen, the two of them coming together like lovers, makes Adam's heart flutter and beat erratically with a happiness he hasn't felt in years. There is light now, light ahead of them. Light and life and hope for him and for Michael and for Sam. And if his life is cut short, Adam is grateful that there will be love in it, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Traveling by bus would be boring if it wasn't for Ez and Henri. Sam's mind has been so busy lately that it feels like heaven to listen to his friends' comments on everything they see. Ez's sarcasm and Henri's swift changes between watching the surroundings and drawing quick but decidedly talented sketches are entertaining and relaxing. Before they have left Paris, Henri has drawn people, dogs, trees, insects, cars, and Ez has provided a running commentary on all of it.

"You don't say much," Henri finally says and closes his small sketchbook. "Nervous?"

Sam turns in his seat. "No, it's not that. The last weeks..."

"You haven't seen him again?" Ezra wants to know. "I guess that's what it's about. Adam has never been better, so... Monsieur Lucifer, right?"

True. Adam is well, all things considered. Sam has gotten two letters already, and although Adam's situation is severe, it is improving. "I haven't. I told him I needed to work."

The bus coughs as the driver brakes at a stop and Sam has to brace himself against the seat in front of him. He turns again, looking at Ezra. "I wasn't lying. I've finished a few pieces."

"Let me see them, hm?" As usual Ezra wants in, and Sam is happy to oblige. Any poem that passes Ezra's critical eye ends up a better poem. "I'll write Harriet Monroe and tell her that you have something coming up. She'll be happy to take whatever you have for _Poetry_."

It isn't the first time Ezra has helped Sam publish in the modernist magazine. Miss Monroe pays well, so he is grateful. "Maybe you should look at the poems first," Sam argues. "Don't count my chickens and all that."

Ezra pats him on the shoulder. "When I'm done editing, Monroe will _beg_ you to let her have them all."

Sam groans. "Good to know you're still as modest as ever." Ezra's flamboyant personality is one of the things Sam likes about him. It is in everything he does, from the way he dresses—green shirt and hand-painted tie with Japanese ideogrammes clashing against his red beard and chestnut hair. Vermilion socks and a cobalt earring, stone dangling against his shoulder—to the way he writes and lives and acts: Ezra does everything with a confidence that Sam envies. Even his love is special, extraordinary: Ezra loves Henri, body and soul, a love that was meant to be, at least in Ezra's opinion. No, Ez really never does anything discreetly or in moderation.

"Lucifer," Henri says, insistent. "What about him?"

Sam is unsure. "I... I might like him."

"And yet you haven't seen him since your day off together?"

Sam smiles at the thought of the Sunday they spent together, Lucifer and he. Lucifer had been boyishly pleased, driving Sam in his new car; a white wonder with black leather interior. They'd had lunch at a small tavern, dinner at a quiet restaurant. "I enjoyed his company. He is educated, intelligent and sometimes very intimidating." Sam isn't sure what to do with his conflicting feelings. "It was easier when I thought he wanted me for... "

"Sex." As usual, Henri isn't afraid to go directly to the essence of things; he speaks the way he carves his sculptures: quick and simple and precise. "If he isn't blind, he'd want you for sex, but that's not what bothers you, right?"

A few passengers get up to exit the bus and Sam waits until they are gone before he replies. "Lucifer... he has real power. Money. Connections. Why does he want to ruin his life with someone like me? I know it's not like in Kansas—they'd have thrown me in jail, and Lucifer, too, for sodomy, but it can't possibly do anything good for his standing, having a relationship with another man. He insists that he wants me to be his lover. I mean, we're not doing anything illegal, but it doesn't stop the police from harassing men like us when they can. We all know that far too well. I don't know... I sort of want him, but I don't think that he has thought it through. I'm poor, and he's... we're not..."

Again, Henri nails it. "Maybe you should let Monsieur Alighieri decide for himself? He doesn't interfere with your decision, do him the courtesy and allow him to pick the path he wants to walk. With you, or without you. Whether you want to follow him... that is up to you."

"You're different from us, you and Monsieur Lucifer." Ezra looks from Sam to Henri, his gaze lingering for a moment. "And yet... Henri and I, we were made for each other, two broken halves to make a perfect, flawless whole. But who decides how those halves look, how they fit together to make the perfect combination? Maybe you, too, were made for someone, for Lucifer?" Ezra waves his hand at Sam, pointing at him accusingly. "Don't deny it, Sam, I have never seen you being so preoccupied with _anyone_. Perhaps it's just that your other half, the one that is going to make you whole, is very different from what you expected? You need someone who takes care of you and Monsieur Alighieri needs someone who isn't afraid of him, someone who hasn't deference as a part of their presets. Seeing that the man is scary as hell, my guess is that there is far between men who are actually able to stand up to him, to be his equal. I don't like him, but I like what I see when you think about him. I think you should give him a chance."

"Insist that the next dinner is on you, in your home and see how he manages," Henri suggests. "If all that matters to him is luxury and superficial signs of upper-class superiority, you'll soon find out."

"And my writing? What if it suffers? What if—"

"Sam, stop. Look at me." Ezra is dead serious. "You knew me before Henri. Now tell me that I have become a lesser poet. Tell me my art has suffered, and I _will_ punch you in the face. Henri is the reason I have developed as a poet; because he invokes in me feelings that are as true as the purest image, devoid of anything superfluous. Do you truly think it matters if I go hungry or not? If I go from feast to famine and back? None of that matters because I have found my muse."

"I can never pay him back," Sam insists. "For what he did for Adam. And... I am not going to be his... concubine. If he becomes a source of inspiration it only makes the debt even bigger."

"If you think it is a question about money and paying back, you don't understand love very well," Henri lectures, unsurprised by Ezra's declaration. They truly know each other so well. "Monsieur Alighieri paid for Adam's treatment, that was actually a business proposition, if you argue that agreeing to have dinner with him three times is payment. So, three dinners—that's what you owe him. No more, no less. Anything else you agree to? That's because you want to give it to him for nothing."

"You said it yourself, Sam," Ezra says. "He wants a lover, not a whore or a catamite or a concubine. He's in love with you. Give the man a chance! That you haven't refused him outright should really clue you in."

There is some truth in Ezra's words. Sam needs to consider that Ez might be right. If Lucifer turns out to be his inspiration, it doesn't matter what his surroundings are like, then Lucifer will be there, a clear star on a dark firmament, eternal and bright.

They fall into a comfortable silence as the bus continues, wobbling and coughing its way to Petit Fontainebleau. Sam usually listens to his friends' advice, and he sits back, huddled in the corner, looking out the window as he thinks it through. It might be that Lucifer is in love, but it doesn't mean that being with him is a good idea. What is a good idea, though, is to ask Lucifer to come to him, to see him out of his environment, away from the luxury and the light and the warmth. Sam finds that he needs to see Lucifer naked, not in the sense that he is not wearing any clothes, but Sam needs him exposed to the cruel, cold life that Sam knows. In that regard, Sam will be naked, too, because his life is like an open, festering wound: it hurts, it never heals, there is always something that rips the wound open again. That is what poverty does, and the sooner Lucifer understands, the sooner Sam can get back to a life without hope, since no one in their right mind would wish that kind of destiny upon themselves. It's better that way—Sam won't have to deal with the disappointment of seeing Lucifer discard him after a while. He can go back to the eternal cycle of writing, starving and freezing. It's what he knows. Hoping for more is messing it up. It makes Sam jittery. At least he knows how to navigate the kind of life he has now.

*

A nurse meets them when they arrive, a little tired and quite cold, at the sanatorium. Ezra and Henri are shown towards the laboratory; they are going to go through all the painful exercises that Sam went through two weeks ago.

"Dr Alighieri will take good care of them," the nurse reassures him. "You can go see your brother right away. Dr Alighieri's brother is visiting, although some would say that it looks like he moved in. He is a good friend to your brother."

"He is." It's surprising. Adam has kept Michael at an arm's length for ages, rarely allowing him to spend much time in his company. As Sam walks up the stairs to the upper floor, he wonders what made Adam change his mind. The fear of transferring the disease is real enough, Sam knows that, and he knows how careful Adam is. With the vaccine's protection, Michael _is_ safe. Maybe that was all Adam needed, knowing that Michael would not come to any harm?

The door to Adam's room is ajar, and Sam knocks softly before he pushes it open. Michael raises his head and looks at him, shaking his head, telling Sam in no words not to speak. Sam sees why. Adam is in Michael's arms, sleeping soundly, his cheeks pink and his mouth slightly open. He looks better than he has looked for years. Adam is wrapped in a luxurious velvet robe, covered by a fur plaid that certainly isn't provided by the hospital. The room is cold, but Adam looks content in the cocoon of warmth that Michael has made for him.

"Come get me when he wakes up," Sam whispers and retreats. He doesn't want to disturb Adam's sleep; his illness hasn't allowed him a good night's sleep for years, and to see him resting so peacefully is a miracle in itself. Sam finds a niche in the corridor; there is a modern radiator there, and Sam moves a chair close to it, sighing as the blessed heat warms him up.

Again, Sam takes his time, thinking about everything that has happened. But the memory of Adam, sleeping peacefully in Michael's embrace, for once safe and cared for, continues to haunt him. Adam's surrender is beautiful, and it makes Adam beautiful too, finally giving in to the feelings he must have had for Michael for a very long time. Michael, too, has changed. Sam has never thought that the stiff, correct Monsieur Alighieri would turn into this loving, protective man, entirely dedicated to Adam and to Adam's well-being.

Sam examines the emotions that clash inside him. It's relief, mostly, that Adam is happy, but there is this nagging, ugly feeling too, a pebble grating against his confused feelings, threatening to make him bleed with envy. Because that is what it is: envy. Sam is sure that he must be a horrible human being, being jealous of his own brother and the happiness he finally has in his life. But, oh... Just once, Sam would like to experience what Adam is experiencing, minus the deadly disease. Just once he would like to feel on his own body and soul the connection between two human beings in love with each other, in love like Henri and Ezra, like Adam and Michael. Just once. God, Sam wants it badly.

He is not sure that he is going to have that, not that kind of love, not with Lucifer.

He tries to imagine it, sleeping in Lucifer's arms or having Lucifer look at him the way Ez looks at Henri, and has to give up. It is difficult, despite Lucifer's apparent possessiveness, to imagine him being tender and loving. Lucifer is a man who wants and takes; he is not a gentle lover, not that Sam knows yet, not really. Maybe he never will come to know—there is a vast difference between being attracted to another man, and wanting to be with him for the rest of his life. That Lucifer wants him as his lover is not reason enough to give in.

Sam gives up. He'll let Lucifer have what he bargained for: three dinners, no more, no less. That's all he can handle.

*

Sam is half asleep when Michael slips out from Adam's room. "He's awake."

Squinting, Sam yawns and rubs his eyes. "Is he well, Monsieur?"

"Considering? Yes. He sleeps well, and it helps."

"Thanks to you."

"And to you." The admission sounds as if it pains Michael to get it out. "Without your sacrifice he'd never have accepted treatment."

"Not much of a sacrifice. Your brother's company isn't that unpleasant."

"You don't know him." Michael looks very tired. "Maybe you have a good influence on him; he has been unusually tolerable recently."

"No, I don't." Sam frowns, slightly annoyed that Michael is so cold towards his own brother. "And I do find him... very tolerable. As I said, he is pleasant company."

"Your enthusiasm is commendable, Monsieur. Very few people find Lucifer pleasant."

"Right. Now that we have the assessment of _your_ brother out of the way, perhaps you'll allow me to assess _my_ brother's condition?" Sam snaps, not too friendly.

It makes Michael laugh, a surprising change of mood. "I see that Adam has learned from the best. My apologies, Sam."

Being addressed by his first name is surprising, too. "Oh, he's been practicing," Sam says. "I assume that is why he chose you, Michael. You understand him."

A smile tugs at the corners of Michael's mouth. "A blessing to mankind that both Gabriel and your oldest brother are married. I am not sure I could handle yet another Winchester-Alighieri connection, although it seems to be a grand cure for almost everything, apart from Adam's illness."

"There is no other connection between our families," Sam argues. "I do not belong to Lucifer."

"I didn't think you did," Michael says. "But maybe he belongs to you." He steps aside and pushes the door to Adam's room open. "I'll go find Gabriel." He turns on his heel and walks down the corridor, heels ra-ta-ta-ing against the gray tiles.

The brief exchange stuns Sam. Frozen, he tries to make sense of what Michael said, to apply the information to his impression of Lucifer. If what Michael says is true, then Lucifer is more invested than Sam thought. Oh, he knows that Lucifer told him that he wasn't chosen just to become a toy for Lucifer to play with, that Lucifer wanted more, but the implications of this, of Lucifer's dedication, are wider, deeper, more serious than anything that Lucifer could have told Sam himself. For Michael to reveal such a secret... 

"Sam?" Adam's voice drags him back from his sudden plunge into the abyss of unwanted possibilities and feelings.

"Yeah, I'm here." It's with relief that Sam leaves his problems outside in the corridor and instead turns his full attention to Adam.

He embraces Adam carefully, happy to see that there is still color in his cheeks and that his eyes are clear and sharp. "It has done you good, staying here," Sam concludes. "You look good."

"I feel better. Gabriel says that they are going to collapse my lung in a few weeks so that it can heal properly. If I was at the brink of death, I suppose he'd have been a little hesitant, seeing that it would have been an utter waste of time trying to patch me up."

"Do you now?" Sam laughs, wondering if the diet of determination and sarcasm is the reason Adam has survived for so long. That and his incredible stubbornness. "I think you might be right."

He sits down on the low couch underneath the tall windows. The garden and the forest outside are brown with dying leaves, a few trees naked skeletons, thin and frail. He looks at the sky, not at Adam. That the date for Adam's surgery has been decided is a surprise, but a good one. It's not without danger; there are so many risks and Sam might lose his brother sooner than he thought. But it is certain that Gabriel wouldn't make the attempt if Adam wasn't feeling better.

Life has been a whirlwind since Lucifer suggested the deal; there are moments when Sam wishes he could go back and take another road, to make life slow down. But Adam is sitting next to him, and his hand in Sam's is warm. Adam is alive and happy. There is nothing more Sam can do, except stop being afraid that he will lose his little brother.

"You know I have a much better chance of staying alive now, right?" Adam seems to have read his thoughts. 

"I know," Sam says. "I'm going to have the vaccine later today," he adds, somehow wanting to convey that he believes that Adam will survive, making it important that Sam gets immunized as soon as possible.

Adam simply squeezes his hand. They sit like that, silent, for a long time, no words necessary, until Michael returns with Gabriel, Ezra and Henri.

Gabriel is the usual ray of sunshine. "Sammy!" he exclaims and embraces Sam like he is a long-lost relative. "I have tormented your lovely friends, and now it's your turn. Your tests came out clean; you're as strong as an ox, and healthy too. No signs of latent infection."

Sam lets out a relieved sigh, one that is echoed by Adam. They both know the risks: one out of five in close contact with someone with active tuberculosis is infected. "So... I can get the vaccination today?"

"That's right, kiddo. Come on!" Gabriel pulls at him. "Down to the torture chamber we go; I am looking forward to some time with my favorite pin cushion."

Michael takes Sam's place next to Adam almost before Sam is up from the couch. Protectiveness runs in the family, but it sure has taken a detour to avoid Gabriel. 

"Are you sure that he's actually your brother?" Sam asks Michael, glaring at Gabriel without malice.

"No," Michael says, face emotionless. There is, however, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I'm sure he isn't. I pretend, for the sake of decency."

*

Back in Paris, Sam lets himself be carried away by work once more. He suspects that the last weeks have taken their toll, and it shows: he writes more and more vividly than he has done for ages. Walking at the brink of death, watching Adam stumble and almost fall has left wounds. Emerging himself in the cleansing stream of words helps. The more sharp and surgical his pen gets, the better Sam feels. He cuts away the emotional necrosis with a brilliant image; heals the bleeding wound with a smooth, soft vision; recovers as he writes a brief sentence so beautiful it makes him sigh in awe of his own ability to create. For days that is all he does. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't feel the cold. There are but whirling images and healing.

He resurfaces once in a while when the outside world's debris floats by. A letter from Adam, and a gentle reply. A dry baguette with hard cheese. A brief visit from Ezra, cut short by Ez's uncanny ability to understand that inspiration has hit and that his presence merely is a distraction. Time flies by, too fast, before Sam realizes that he is hungry, that he stinks, and that he hasn't spoken to anyone for almost two weeks.

It's an abrupt awakening, but the pile of finished work makes it worth it. Every sheet represents two very different concepts: Sam's emotions, and the money he is going to earn from distilling and concentrating them, turning them into perfect images for his readers to feast upon. Sam hates this clash between art and reality, but money is necessary. Even with Adam at the sanatorium, money is necessary. 

Sam can have his second dinner with Lucifer over and done with, knowing that he will be able to afford it.

He takes a long bath, as long as two full kettles of hot water, warmed on the stove allow him before the water gets uncomfortably cold. At least he is clean. He dresses while he waits for his hair to dry before he puts on his hat and goes outside. November has arrived with darkness and threats of snow and winter, and wet hair makes it worse. A cup of tea later, Sam leaves, wearing his threadbare winter coat. With a scarf wrapped several times around his neck, and with his hands buried deep in the coat's pockets, Sam makes his way through the night-empty streets and boulevards to Le Perdu.

To Lucifer.

The show is almost over when Sam steps into the theater. A woman in a slinky red dress sings a jazz tune, setting the mood for the wee hours to come, when the orchestra takes over and dancing commences. All the tables are taken, and Sam hesitates. For once he is alone; none of his friends are here. He waits just inside the doors, looking around for the man he almost fears to meet again. Two weeks. The time that slipped through his fingers so easily makes a gap made up of regret and doubt; Sam isn't sure that he wants to see Lucifer at all. He goes over Ezra's advice in his mind, knowing that he has to rid himself of any doubts. He needs to test Lucifer, to see what he's made of, if he is nothing but lies and pretense — or the contrary. Funny how Sam has used two weeks, turning over his own emotions, examining them again and again, looking at them and writing about them and yet he hasn't examined his feelings for Lucifer, those which matter now: lust and longing, doubt and desire.

Sam takes a deep breath, determined to do what he came here for. He pulls out a small envelope from his pocket and heads toward the bar. The bartender will make sure Lucifer gets the note. Sam is about to hand over the letter to one of Lucifer's employees when a well-known voice stops him, mid-movement. 

"Is that for me?" Lucifer asks and holds out a hand in expectation. "You've been gone for two weeks, and I wonder whether that's a love letter or a dismissal." He raises an eyebrow questioningly, revealing no feelings at all. "I didn't believe you to be a coward, so I sincerely hope it is not the latter. I'd have expected that you had the decency to tell me face to face if you do not want me." Despite the emotionless face, Lucifer's words come out, limping and wounded like horses after a battle; they are tainted with pain and hope in equal measures.

"I am not a coward." Sam sends Lucifer a dark look. "It's an invitation."

"Oh." The relief is almost palpable. "I missed you." 

Sam doesn't know what to believe. "I've been at home for almost two weeks. You could have sent a note."

"Sam..." 

Lucifer looks defeated. He takes a step forward, then another, almost too close. Sam stands his ground. He can smell Lucifer's eau de Cologne, a weak whiff of winter and vast forests. Lucifer raises a hand, hesitating before he cups Sam's cheek, looking into his eyes. The tenderness almost breaks Sam on the spot.

"I meant it when I said I wanted you to come to me willingly, Sam." Lucifer's smile is sad. "You have no idea how much I want you, how much I need you. But it only works if you are with me because you want to be with me. How could I pursue you if that would chase away your willing surrender?" 

Sam is caught up in Lucifer's eyes, unable to look away. "I want to have dinner with you." Sam avoids the topic. "On Sunday. Will you come? To my home?"

"Wild horses would not drag me away from such an appointment," Lucifer states. "Of course I will come."


	5. Chapter 5

Saturday arrives in all its brisk splendor. It's one of the first really cold days, the morning white with frost and the promise of snow. Fall is dying, and it is a glorious death, shrouded in light and sun. Sam is up early, preparing for the dinner with Lucifer. He needs everything to be ready since he is visiting Adam later; Ezra and Henri have an appointment with Dr Gabriel. Their vaccines are due; luckily they are both free of latent TB. 

So Sam goes to the butcher's for a soup bone, to the market for vegetables, and the baker's for baguettes. He hesitates before he decides to splurge and buy a bottle of the best cheap Beaujolais that he can afford. It is not much, but to Sam, it's a feast. Tonight, when he returns from the sanatorium, he'll make the soup that his mother taught him to make, and if his mom's soup isn't good enough for Lucifer, then Sam is too good to be with him. Being poor has taught Sam one thing: one cannot afford _not_ to be picky — with soup as well as lovers. 

Which is why Sam is satisfied when he unpacks his meager purchases to store them in the icebox: the turnip is round and firm, the leaves fresh and green, smelling slightly of mustard seed. The celery and the onions are fine, without blemishes, and the apples for the apple pie are sweet-smelling and rose-cheeked. The cinnamon sticks spread a delicious scent in Sam's small kitchen. It might be a poor dinner, but it will still be delicious. The shopkeepers know Sam well enough not to give him anything but value for money. Even the soup bone is more meat than shank. It might not be what Lucifer is used to, but the meal will be one that Sam is proud serving for anyone, Lucifer included.

He is just about ready to leave to go to the bus station when somebody knocks on the door. Thinking that Henri and Ezra are early and have decided to fetch him instead of meeting him on the bus, Sam opens, coat hanging from one arm. He stops, mid-movement, when he finds Lucifer's valet outside.

"Apologies, Monsieur," Claude says. "Monsieur Alighieri asked me give you this." Claude holds out an envelope, heavy cream stationary with the Alighieri family crest — at least that is what Sam thinks it is — printed on the back. 

"Erm, thanks. Does he expect a reply?" Sam asks, turning the envelope over before he opens it carefully.

"He said to wait for you, Monsieur."

Sam nods distractedly and unfolds the letter.

_It would be a pleasure if you would allow me to drive you and your friends to Petit Fontainebleau. I have business with Michael, and he seems to have taken up permanent residence there. Monsieur Pound kindly let me know that you and your friends have planned to visit with Adam today. If you would do me the honor of accepting my offer, my car is downstairs._

It is signed _Lucifer_ in large, fluent letters; the handwriting about as flamboyant as Lucifer himself. Sam thinks that Lucifer's excuse might be the weakest and most transparent excuse he has encountered for ages. Sam thinks about it for a few seconds. He is not sure he wants to accept yet another of Lucifer's generous offers, but he is low on money until the cheque from Harriet Monroe and _Poetry_ arrives, and having Lucifer drive them will save Ez and Henri the bus fare. They aren't exactly wealthy, either. Sam will go to lengths to save his generous friends money they could use for other purposes.

"Tell Monsieur Alighieri that I'll be down in a minute, please."

Lucifer is waiting, leaning against his white car, Ezra and Henri already picked up and seated with blankets in the backseat. The only thing that is missing is the gold slipper, and it would feel like a fairytale.

"Prince Lucifer," Sam says, making an exaggerated bow. "You brought your white horse."

Lucifer catches it immediately. "My Cinderella. What an honor that you decided to join my party." He takes Sam's hand, pressing a kiss to it. 

Ezra and Henri stare at each other, then at Sam. "Love makes people crazy," Ezra states dryly, as if the emotion leaves him cold.

Sam can't stay detached. It is as if Lucifer and he are on the same wavelength, as if they synchronize immediately, and it makes Sam smile. It annoys him too, because it makes it far too easy for Lucifer to worm his way into his life, but mostly it makes him smile.

"Yeah, like that," Henri tells Ezra. "That goofy smile... he's done for. Our Sam is done for."

"I can do without your assistance, thank you very much," Sam snaps, in too good a mood to be truly angry with Ez and Henri for meddling.

"If you'll allow me to escort you to your throne," Lucifer teases and opens the door to the passenger seat. "Then perhaps we can leave before lunch?"

Sam rolls his eyes at their friendly banter and gets into the car. He's sure the ride, despite the fast car, is going to feel very long, what with Ezra, Henri and Lucifer teaming up against him.

He's right. An hour can feel very long. Before they arrive at Petit Fontainebleau, Sam has invented at least ten different and very efficient methods to dispose of three bodies. The only redeeming feature of the drive is Lucifer's hand, firmly closed around his own, a gentle caress that comes and goes during the sixty minutes it takes before Sam gets out of the Benz with a relieved sigh.

*

Again Ez and Henri are whisked away by a nurse so that Gabriel can torture them with needles. Lucifer waits. He doesn't follow when Sam starts walking up the stairs. Sam stops a few steps up. "Lucifer?" he asks, not really knowing what the question really is.

"I can wait. If you want some time with your brother. Michael—"

"No." Sam wants Lucifer there. Michael is his brother, and Lucifer shouldn't stay back like an unwanted orphan, dumped at the doorstep. Even if Sam refuses Lucifer's advances, they are family now, connected by the love their brothers have for each other. 

Lucifer suddenly looks guilty. "I hope I didn't overstep my bounds, fetching Monsieur Pound and Monsieur Gaudier." He looks up, eyes deceptively innocent underneath pale eyelashes. "You promised me the right to woo you. I did not mean to pressure you."

"It was a surprise. I have yet to decide whether it was a pleasant one." Sam is telling the truth. "It was very considerate of you to offer, though. And you might not have pressured me, but you made it almost impossible to refuse."

"I was selfish." Lucifer doesn't deny it.

"That is not true." Sam takes a few steps down. 

"I never lie, Sam. Just because you don't like it, it doesn't make me less selfish."

"You'd have taken Ez and Henri, even if I'd turned you down. And I could have. Turned you down, I mean."

"Of course."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Not entirely selfish, then. Ambiguously selfish, I'll buy that."

"So I'm forgiven?"

"I didn't hear you asking for forgiveness." Sam cannot believe how incredibly bad Lucifer is at being good.

"I'd hoped you'd overlooked that minor problem."

"Are you going to?"

"No. Not if you're not angry with me."

Sam gives up. He laughs. There are few men able to fight Sam with words. Lucifer is good at it. "You're incorrigible. Come on." He grabs Lucifer by the arm and pulls him with him up the stairs. It is almost impossible to stand against Lucifer's boyish charm when all of it is directed at him.

*

Michael is with Adam, as expected. He has turned one corner of the room into a makeshift office; it wasn't untrue that Lucifer was going to see Michael to do business with him. After the usual polite greetings, Sam asks Adam whether he would like to walk in the garden, giving Michael and Lucifer time to work. Adam nods, sending Michael a longing look before he gets up without visible difficulties. He is looking healthy and a pound or two heavier than the last time Sam visited; Adam looks like a man who'd actually enjoy a stroll in the park that surrounds the beautiful, small _château_.

Adam's wardrobe has taken a turn for the better as well: he dresses in a heavy coat that Sam thinks must be cashmere. It has a fur collar. A fur hat and scarf, thick gloves and boots, all of it brand new and obviously tailor made to fit Adam's thin frame show that Michael has dedicated himself to make Adam's life not only better, but definitely more luxurious. 

"I feel bad, accepting his gifts when I know you have so little," Adam tells Sam when they walk across the cobbled courtyard, the last of the dying fall leaves rustling under their feet. The air smells of rain and earth. "I wish I could share my good fortune with you."

"I have the fortune of a good health, Adam. You seriously can't think that I'd begrud—"

"You can have half my disease too," Adam says, clearly better since he's returning to his usual sarcastic self so quickly. "We share like brothers."

"Great. I can hardly wait," Sam retorts. "You're so considerate."

"Shut up." Adam is well enough to land a blow on Sam's shoulder that actually hurts. "So, what's going on with you and Lucifer? More than dinners? Michael says that you're exactly what Lucifer needs: someone who can keep him in line."

Sam doesn't think that anyone can keep Lucifer in line, but he doesn't say that. "I've invited him for dinner tomorrow. At home. If he can't deal with me being poor..."

"Maybe it's you who can't deal with him being rich?" Adam says, leaving Sam speechless and in deep thought for some time. Adam knows that he'd hit bullseye, because he doesn't press on, but stays quiet, waiting.

They walks down a garden path, to a stone bench. There are gargoyles carved in the stone. Henri would have hated them for their elaborate, unnecessary details; they are to carving what rhetoric is to poetry—nothing but ornament. Adam gives them a contemptuous glare before he sits down, waiting for Sam to do the same. "I kept myself from Michael for too long because I thought I wasn't perfect for him, because of my imperfections," Adam finally says.

Sam turns his head and looks at Adam questioningly.

"He could have had the vaccine earlier. I could have accepted to go here a long time ago; I shouldn't have let you pay for my stay the way you did. We could have dealt with the disease a long time ago, and all the time I refused a man who only wants me for who and what I am. Now... Now I cannot imagine to go through life without him, no matter if we're speaking of weeks or years. Don't make the same mistake, Sam. If you like Lucifer, don't make the same mistake." Adam's smile is sad. "Life is short. It's cliché, but it is. Don't waste time."

"How did you get to be the wise brother?" Sam asks. "I'm not making any mistakes; I want to know whether he accepts me for me, or whether he thinks I'm just someone to warm his bed until he gets tired of me." Sam leans forward, his hands folded, his hair falling over his face. He sits there, silent, with thoughts milling around like ants, trying to get in line to get some work done.

"Promise me you'll consider it," Adam insists, "taking him as your lover."

Adam is strangely determined. "Why is it so important to you?"

"Sam, Gabriel is going to collapse my lung next week. I don't want you to be alone. I want you to be with someone who loves you." 

_I could die_ is what Adam is saying. It is not reason enough to be with Lucifer. Sam takes Adam's hand without a word, just squeezes it gently. "Are you afraid?"

"I don't know. A few months ago I wouldn't have cared; I had little to live for and I was merely a burden to you. I had my art, and that was all. Now? Now, I'm scared. My life has changed. I see how you look at Lucifer, and I know that your life could change too, for the better. We have so much to live for. I want to be with Michael for the rest of my life and I don't want it to end next week or next year or next decade." 

Adam falls silent. Sam waits.

"I don't want to die."

There is little Sam can say and most of it would be lies. "I don't want you to die, either."

"Then I won't," Adam says, obstinate.

It makes Sam smile. That's his little brother! "You're so stubborn it'd force even Death give to up. And I'd have to deal with that man of yours after, and I really don't want to. What does Gabriel say?"

"That I'm strong enough, and I'll get better if one lung is healed. The second will be nothing in comparison. He says that the main risk is mostly secondary infections, not the TB in itself. He can perform surgery later, but he says that he'd prefer to have it over with before winter sets in; he wants me to get as much fresh air as possible. It'll be more difficult to breathe with one active lung, and I am going to be very tired."

"But it'll help." Sam has had the procedure explained to him, he still wants Adam to tell him again. 

"It's not a cure, but if the sores in the lungs heal, I'll definitely feel better and I'll be less likely to endanger people around me. He thinks he might be able to keep me alive for a lot longer as long as I'm kept under observation. Very few on a rich diet and with money to pay for good lodging die from TB. Only poor suckers like me expire at a young age. That's what he says, Gabriel."

"That sure sounds like Gabriel. And now you have Michael observing you too."

Adam smiles at the mention of his lover. "Yes," he sighs. "Oh, Sam..."

"You're happy. Despite everything, you're happy."

"Yes. And Gabriel told me that he might have Michael's test ready today. It's six weeks since he got the vaccine, and he has the raised scar that Gabriel says is a sign that the vaccine works."

"Oh!" Sam drags out the 'oh' into a long, teasing sound.

Adam laughs. "You're just jealous."

It's too close to the truth to be entirely comfortable. Sam doesn't begrudge Adam as much of a second of that happiness, he'd just like to have some of his own. 

"I'm not the one who wants to kiss Michael," Sam shoots back. "So Lucifer's test comes back today as well?" Of course Lucifer hasn't mentioned that with as much as a word. Then again, Lucifer isn't Sam's lover, and he is not obligated to tell Sam anything at all.

"I think so. At least there hasn't been anything holding you back from kissing him."

"I guess," Sam says, not admitting that he hasn't kissed Lucifer at all, and that there has been something holding him back. Doubt.

They get up from the bench. The stone is too cold to sit on for very long. Although the weather is pleasant, it's still too cold. They walk back to the house, slowly so that Adam doesn't get too tired and breathless. They brave the stairs even more slowly, one step at a time, at times so slow that Adam becomes impatient and shoves Sam to make him walk faster. Adam is breathless, but with laughter when they finally get to the second floor. Sam slings his arm around Adam's shoulder, pulling him close, trying to convey that right there, right that instant, Adam's smile, the sound of his laughter, the instant of pure joy that they share... that makes Sam happy. It's a moment that will stay with him for a long time, maybe for the rest of his life.

They can hear laughter from Adam's room. Gabriel is entertaining, and entertaining well. They can hear Ezra and Henri, Lucifer too. 

"I think you should all leave," Michael barks. "I do not find it amusing to be mocked."

Adam looks at Sam. "I wonder what Gabriel has done now. We should probably stop them before there is bloodshed."

"We're at a hospital. There are people who clean up and stitch them together." Sam looks at Adam again and decides that the bloodshed is an actual risk. "We better hurry."

They reach the door, only to find Michael in the middle of flinging a notebook at Gabriel who ducks behind the bed, still laughing. "Peace!" Gabriel shouts and grabs a clean, white towel from the sink behind him. He waves it. "The cavalry has arrived. Your side, Michael, not mine. Gentlemen, it is time to retreat."

Adam steps into the center of the room, separating the combatants, Sam in tow. "What is going on here?" Adam demands as he throws his coat at a chair at the coffee table. "Was it something in the water, or have you decided to revert to an earlier development stage?" He throws his hat and gloves in the chair, too, impatent. Sam suppresses a smile at the sight of his brother. Dressed in the best suit money can buy, and with a confidence that only the youngest of the Winchesters is able to muster, Adam is able to patronize with the best. "Explain!"

Lucifer is busy picking up things from the floor, items that seem to have been used in the rapid war between Michael and Gabriel. "Some of us kept neutral," he insists, two notebooks, several towels and a pillow in his arms. "Gabriel came to tell us that our blood tests were fine. The vaccines worked." He throws the debris from Gabriel's and Michael's battle on the couch. "Of course Gabriel couldn't refrain from commenting on the potential outcome. Michael took offense."

"Out! All of you," Michael commands. "Or I shall take no responsibility for my actions."

"It worked?" Adam asks, his eyes wide as he looks at Michael, then at Gabriel. "It really worked?"

"Yup, kid. He's good, and so is Lucifer. They both have the nicests antibodies I've seen. You're good to go."

Adam's smile could light up Paris by night. "What Michael said. Out!" He squeezes Sam's hand. "You too. I love you, you're my brother, but go away and take Ez and Henri with you."

Before Sam is able to come up with a reply, Lucifer is at his side, arm around his waist. "I don't think that my presence is any more wanted than yours at the moment. Allow me to offer you a shoulder to cry on after such a cruel dismissal." Lucifer manages to keep a straight face, but his eyes are filled with joy. "Let's get out of here before we have to witness my brother ravish yours. There are limits."

Sam couldn't agree more. He doesn't even look back, but hurries out the door, ignoring how good it feels to have Lucifer's arm firmly slung around him.

*

Michael doesn't hesitate. In three long strides he has his arms around Adam. "It worked."

Adam's smile fades at the sight of the hope in his lover's eyes. He is so in love, so lost in Michael that Michael's fluctuation between hope and fear of rejection is destroying him. "He's sure? Gabriel? _You_ are sure?"

Michael raises a hand. It rests against Adam's skin, warm and reassuring. "If I can't be with you..."

"Then what?" Adam whispers. "You'd rather be dead? You know where this goes. You know that I might not survive the treatment. The vaccine... Monsieur Calmette and Gabriel... they don't know how well it works. You'd die for me? For love?"

"Adam... We've talked about this. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. If you hadn't been so stubborn, we wouldn't have wasted so much time." Michael sounds so sure, as if he knows that they are meant to be. "Don't let us waste another minute."

Adam knows; God, does he know! If he hadn't been so proud, he could have had treatment a year ago. All this time Michael had waited patiently for him to give in, only to have his offers overruled by Sam's stupid deal with the devil. Adam sighs. He's hesitating now that he finally is able to have what he wants, now that he finally is able to be the lover that Michael deserves. If his life is cut short, he doesn't want to live his last days in regret, nor does he want Michael to remember those few days as a time of regret and longing. 

No, they don't need to talk about this any longer. If Michael truly wants him — and Adam has no doubt about that — then he will show how much longing and love he has been hiding during the many months he rejected Michael's advances. Without further thinking about his decision, Adam puts his hands on Michael's chest, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Michael gasps softly, his lips parting under Adam's, before he slides his arms around Adam's waist, pulling him close.

Adam sighs, fingers meeting behind Michael's head, unrelenting as he interlocks them, holding on to Michael. He is not letting go, not ever. How long that 'ever' might be. "I'm in love with you," Adam whispers. "I love you. I want you, Michael. You told me that you'd give me everything. Do. Right now."

"And by everything," Michael murmurs, his eyes softer than butterflies and puppy-bellies. "You mean..."

"Everything." Adam bites his lip, staring at Michael's wet mouth, so inviting. He feels like exploding; the deep desire for his beloved almost too much to bear. "I want kisses. Your touch. More. When they come to take me to surgery the last thing I want to think about is you inside me. I want to remember how you made love to me."

"God have mercy," Michael moans, and finally, finally claims what has been his for a very long time.

Adam surrenders himself willingly, opening his mouth to Michael's possessive kiss. He is breathless instantly, his desire flaring high by the mere touch of tongue against tongue. He has longed and hoped for his moment, for the instant that he had turned into an impossible dream by means of his own stubborn stupidity. "I shouldn't have refused your offer," Adam gasps when Michael withdraws to let him breathe. "Kiss me again." Michael tastes like Michael: coffee and bitter chocolate and deep-running desire.

The next kiss is even more heated, Adam getting weak at the knees at Michael's strong embrace and the urgent kiss. Michael's body is hot, making Adam burn with lust despite the room's chill air. It suddenly becomes important to Adam to get the layers of fabric away, off, gone, so that he can touch Michael's warm skin. He pulls at jacket and tie and shirt, distracted by Michael's mouth on his own, and by the weak little sounds that Michael makes. Finally Michael decides to help, eagerly discarding the layers of clothes so that Adam can get his hands on his chest.

"Mmm," is all Adam can say when he splays his hands wide, slowly trailing his fingers from Michael's neck, across his nipples to his hips. "More." He rests his hands on Michael's belt, leaving no doubt of what 'more' means.

Michael doesn't comply. Adam would have been disappointed if he did. They've had a battle of wills since the day they met, and it is one of the things he likes about Michael. 

"I want you under the covers," Michael demands, and releases Adam in favor of opening his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. It lands on the floor with a soft hiss of heavy fabric against stone. "Naked."

Adam sighs. Michael is perfect when he is determined and very, very commandeering. "Yes, Michael," Adam whispers, looking up at Michael with heavy-lidded eyes, coquettish, goading Michael to get on with it. 

Michael places a finger under Adam's chin. "You are driving me insane on purpose! What am I to do with you?"

"Undress me and make love to me. I'm sure that helps," Adam deadpans, unable to pretend for more than a second before the burning lust takes over. He attacks Michael's clothes with a determination that makes Michael laugh and moan at the same time.

They fight the buttons of Adam's vest and shirt, Michael suddenly clumsy as he tears at the fabric, impatient to get it off. Adam makes a deep moan when Michael finally pulls him close, his big hands warm and soft as he caresses his naked back. Michael is hard and Adam cannot stop himself from pressing against the hardness. Narrow pants are stretched tight over Adam's erection, too, the confinement almost painful. God, he longed for this for months, for Michael's touch, for his kisses!

"Let me undress you," Michael begs. "Let me take you to bed."

Adam manages to kiss Michael again when he is picked up and carried to the hospital bed. It's not that the state of undressing progresses much because Michael has decided to catch up with all the kisses they they could have had since they fell in love. Adam lies back, half naked, with Michael's kisses burning on his skin, the sensation of lips on his body. Michael makes him breathless. Damned, it's good to be breathless like this. 

Pieces of clothing fall on the floor like a slow drizzle of snow, barely covering the ground. It's the first time Adam sees Michael naked, and he likes it. He stops Michael with a hand on his chest, just to let himself feast on perfect skin and toned muscles and Michael stops, one hand it the pocket of the pants he is about to drop on the tiles.

"You like me?" Michael smiles, kneeling on the bed between Adam's legs, hesitating a moment before he tryingly caresses Adam's thigh, fingers sliding lightly, slowly but surely, towards Adam's hard cock.

"Touch me and I'll like you more," Adam moans, his impatience getting the better of him. He spreads his legs wider in invitation. Does Michael want him to beg? Oh, Adam will do that. "You are perfect."

Michael's shoulders are broad and his hips narrow. His cock is not too big, not too small: a good size. Adam moans again, because speaking coherently becomes too difficult when Michael encases his cock in his warm hand. Michael is a perfect piece of art, made for Adam alone. Yes, he likes Michael and he likes what he sees. Loves it, just like he loves that he can finally have lovemaking and kisses and closeness. 

"I love you," Adam whispers, finding words to slip in between the moans. "Let me show you how much."

Michael doesn't complain. Instead he pulls the covers and the heavy fur plaid over them, warding them against the cold as he sinks down on the bed next to Adam, one arm around his waist, one leg thrown across Adam's thigh as they lie together in the small cave, warm and comfortable on the pristine white sheets. "Will you let me... prepare?" Michael asks, almost shyly, do different from the cold, hard man he usually is. His cheeks are rose-tinted. "Gabriel... gave me _this_." Michael has a small tube in one hand. "Can I?"

Adam thinks that Michael is adorable. Arousing and adorable. "I'm yours," Adam says, stroking Michael's cheek. He loves his man so much; he's so gentle and kind and loving, and yet so strong. Adam gets up to throw an arm around Michael's neck, offering him his mouth again, kissing him with ferocious hunger. Michael kisses back, just as hungry, all their longing expressed in the way they breathe each other in, the way they taste and lick and suck at lips and tongue, skin wet with kisses and necks red with little possessive bites. Every mark makes Adam sigh or moan; soft, pleased noises which, in turn, turns Michael on.

With a hand between Adam's leg, Michael puts a claim to Adam's body; there is no doubt that he is adamant, taking what is his for the taking. His surprising shyness evaporates as his arousal flares, his cock hot and wet against Adam's hip as Michael lies down on top of him, a wonderful heavy feeling of being owned. Adam has never wondered how it would feel to burn, but he knows now: it is Michael's hands on his body, fingers sliding inside him, making the furnace of lust burn hotter. The fur plaid lands on the floor on top of their clothes when Adam uses what little strength he has to pull Michael close, pleasure washing over them both, blinding and burning them, when they finally, _finally_ , come together as they were meant to be together. 

Adam cries out, sobbing and gasping as Michael takes him, the pleasure and the relief too much, and far from enough. 

It will never be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam makes sure that the soup is simmering and the stove is heating properly before he lights the candles on the small and very rickety dining table. He kicks at the nearest leg to make the table a bit more stable. He examines the cutlery a second time; it's a mix of gifts and bargain buys from the nearest second-hand shop, but it's clean and polished to a shine. The wine is uncorked and still chill like it's supposed to be. The pale wine smells vaguely of cherries; it'll go well with the soup. Sam cannot find anything that needs his attention, nothing but his jacket. He pulls it on, buttoning it over his vest. Without caring to look in a mirror, he straightens his tie. Sam is low on money and fashion, but rich on pride: if Lucifer doesn't like Sam's neatly made table and his mended clothes, he can leave and never come back.

It'd make things so much easier if he did.

The mere thought of never seeing Lucifer again, except on occasion when they run into each other at Le Perdu or at the sanatorium, makes Sam uncomfortably melancholic. Although he could have sworn it wouldn't happen, he might, just might, have started to actually like Lucifer.

A little. 

It's a little that is by far enough to make his stomach upset with butterflies. It's a little that makes his heart run ahead, frantically beating, not waiting for his breathing to catch up. It's like the flu, Sam thinks; he feels feverish and weak and cold and hot and maybe Sam would like a gentle hand on his heated skin for relief. Lucifer's hand.

Luckily the soup starts boiling, a welcome distraction. Sam curses, annoyed with himself, and pulls the pot from the stove at the exact same moment as the sharp sound of determined raps on the door announce that his guest has arrived. The pot is hot and Sam burns his fingers in the attempt of saving the dish he has spent hours on preparing, but the pain is welcome: it ruins the daydream about Lucifer and makes him wake up to a reality that craves decisions that Sam is not ready to take; not yet.

Blowing a stream of cool air on the burn, Sam opens the door.

Lucifer holds out a bouquet; orange germini and dark red oak leaves, Asiatic lilies and lantern-shaped physalis; October colors and summer smells. "It's fall," he says no further explanation. "Thank you for the invitation." Lucifer brings with him a whiff of the late fall, too, of the city and the dying leaves.

Sam is torn. It's a beautiful bouquet, expensive and deceptively simple. He is just about to refuse it, letting Lucifer know in no diplomatic terms that his poor lifestyle does not allow such presents since he can never return the courtesy when he realizes that he cannot count on Lucifer adhering to other rules than those common politeness dictates. And it is polite to bring a gift for the host or hostess.

Sam takes the bouquet. "Thank you. Please, come in." Sam steps aside, letting in the tiger, or so it feels. There is a dangerous predator loose in his home and he's not sure he can escape it. He is no longer sure he wants to.

"So formal," Lucifer says. He smiles, a little overbearing. "You weren't brought up to become this savage thing that you are now."

Sam decides on the spot that it would be impolite to hit Lucifer in the face with a bunch of flowers. "No. My mother told me to be polite to guests, even the unwanted and annoying ones."

Lucifer's laughter is warm and dark; the deep sound of it doing things to Sam's stomach and other parts of him that he'd rather not think of, at least not now, not when he's still caught between wanting Lucifer and wanting him to stay away.

"I suffer from the serious and, at times, deadly foot-in-mouth disease," Lucifer admits, skating across the frozen pond of unspoken apologies without skipping. "What I meant to say was that you have impeccable manners."

"Right." Sam straightens up and looks down his nose at Lucifer. "My mother also taught me that the best way of dealing with people with no manners was to show them how well-mannered people act."

Lucifer isn't fazed. He stands his ground, and his breath ghosts over Sam's mouth, a warm whiff that is too close to be a precursor of a kiss to Sam's liking. "I am in for an evening of learning, then? I can hardly wait." Lucifer takes the step that brings them in contact with each other, too close, far too close. "What will you teach me next, Sammy?" he whispers softly, a purr to the tone. "Forgotten that you are one of the front-runners, the avant garde, in favor of resorting to slapping me in the face with your parents' bourgeois ideas and moral? Or is it just a ruse to hide that you are passionate and wild when someone turns you on?"

Sam cannot stop himself from laughing. "You are entirely without decency," he gasps, getting drunk on Lucifer's scent, and takes a step back. Lucifer is a collection of bad behavior, horrible personal traits, and less than zero remorse. He is sin personified, and yet Sam cannot be bothered to dislike him. Because deep down, Lucifer is kind, too, and loving, Sam has seen it again and again during the time he has spent with Lucifer and Michael. Sam sighs and sends Lucifer a decidedly rude eye-roll. "If I manage to have you sit at the table and have a normal conversation, I'll be surprised I got you that far," he snorts, not entirely serious. He raises the bouquet and points at the direction of the the room that used to be Sam's bedroom. "Please. Living room. I'll put these in water."

Lucifer doesn't move. Instead he decides to look overly disappointed, so much that it can only be playacting. "I'd hoped that you had at least begun to like me by now," he tells Sam, a smile on his face that belies the complaint. There is a truth to it, though, Sam is sure. "I am a patient man. I can wait."

"Don't wait up," Sam snaps and walks into the small kitchen, maybe swaying his hips a little bit more than strictly necessary. Sam is sure now: Lucifer _is_ the Devil, or at least in league with Satan in some way. It doesn't bother him as much as it should be.

*

Lucifer stares at the soup, a piece of buttered baguette in one hand. "You are _sure_ you did this yourself?" He shakes his head in denial before he takes another spoonful, moaning as he swallows. His plate is almost empty. For the second time.

Amused, Sam watches, torn between taking offense and feeling incredibly satisfied. "What did you expect? That I woke up this morning and invisible forces had put the pot on the stove for me and filled it to the brim?"

"A clear soup, Sam, is the mark of a master chef. It looks deceptively simple, but I swear to you that I have encountered Michelin-star chefs who would kill to get the recipe for this. I know chefs who have tried to get it right for thirty years, and they are nowhere near this stage of perfection."

Sam stirs his soup, his admittedly good soup, watching the poor ingredients swirl, wondering what turned his simple dish into a feast fit for kings. "My mother taught me. Boring middle class dishes for the _bourgeoisie_." The annoyance with Lucifer still lingers, and the bitterness slips out, unattended.

"You're still offended? I was merely teasing." Lucifer's eyes are soft and honest, and Sam almost believes him.

"Was that an apology?"

"I did not mean to criticize your family. They are clearly gifted, since they produced such perfection." Lucifer leaves little room for misunderstanding. He is looking at Sam, not at the dish.

"Why I invited you into my home is a riddle to me," Sam groans. 

"Because I'm handsome, intelligent and good company?" 

"And modest. Don't forget modest." Sam adds.

Lucifer rises his glass and takes a sip, quiet for a moment; enjoying the lightness of the young wine. "I am merely directing your attention to my good sides. I think I have the right to advertise as you appear unable to appreciate them properly."

"Oh, I appreciate them." For the first time Sam gives as good as he gets. There is no reason to hide how attractive he finds Lucifer. He turns his longing glance into a caress, as obvious as if he'd let his fingers spread out on Lucifer's wide chest. He bites his lips, red and wet, a temptation for Lucifer to resist, if he is able. 

Lucifer puts his spoon down. " _All the while they were talking the new morality,_ " he recites,

" _His eyes explored me_  
_And when I arose to go_  
_His fingers were like the tissue_  
_Of a Japanese paper napkin."_

Lucifer reaches across the table, placing his hand gently on Sam's, just a touch of dry, soft skin, a brush of warmth that heats Sam up more than the hot soup.

"Ezra's image." Sam recognizes it immediately. " _The Encounter_. I think I prefer his _Heather_ , although I find the content disturbing:

 _The black panther threads at my side_  
_And above my fingers_  
_There float the petal-like flames._ "

"Afraid to burn?" Lucifer asks, interlocking his fingers with Sam's. "Or to be burned?"

Sam pulls his hand back as if it had been slapped. Lucifer is too clever. Or maybe he is too transparent? Burn or burned? That is not how Sam had thought of it, but it is precisely why he hasn't let Lucifer get any closer. He rubs the small burn from the soup pot; it is nothing compared to how it would feel to let himself be consumed by Lucifer's fire, Lucifer's pale fire, the cold blue winter in his eyes, the pale, cold gold of his hair. It's a winter fire, and deep and long and deadly. Sam finds the answer in words that aren't his own: 

" _I think of the grey_  
_opalescent winter dawn; as the wave_  
_burns on the shingle, I think_  
_you are less beautiful than frost;_  
_but it is also true that I pray,_  
_O, give me burning blue—"_

Lucifer smiles. " _—and brittle burnt sea-weed_  
_above the tide-line, as I stand, still unsatisfied_ ,  
_under the long shadow-on-snow of the pine._ " 

Lucifer continues H.D.'s poem as if he knows all of it by heart, his eyes set on Sam's face with a dark intensity, frost and fire and the roaring ocean hidden in his eyes. "So what will it be, Sam? Burn or drown?"

Time stands still, and so does Sam's heart. He didn't realize that he was in this deep. Time stands still and Sam needs more of it, he needs it to move along and his thoughts with it. The clock on the wall takes little crisp steps from now to now, but time isn't moving. 

"I don't know," Sam says, his hand on Lucifer's again, hoping that holding on to it can prevent him from drowning. He sighs, caught up in the connection between them. "You confuse me. The choices you give me confuse me."

"I'd never pretend to know how many choices you have, or to limit them. And I am not a predator out to devour you. That would defy my intent: to enjoy your company any way you'll allow me to enjoy it." Lucifer turns his hand and strokes Sam's fingers gently. "Do you wish to stay unsatisfied, longing for something that you could have if you only dared reach out to take it?"

Sam closes his eyes, trying to make sense of everything, as if he hadn't used weeks on exactly that exercise. Lucifer is right. He has been holding back, unsure of what to do with it all. But Lucifer has been nothing but kind, even respectful in his own odd, distorted way. Lucifer is generous and supportive and he is so different from what Sam thought he'd be. Lucifer's company no longer makes Sam feel jittery and uncomfortable. Or rather it does, but it's a different uncomfortable: it's the kind of uncomfortable that comes with wanting more and not knowing how to ask for it. 

Sam is reluctant to let go of Lucifer's hand, so he doesn't. "You are telling me I'm holding back?"

"You are an intelligent man, Sam. I am not telling you anything you don't know already." Lucifer's eyes don't waver. "I am asking you to let yourself reach for what you want."

Sam cannot look away. Lucifer's low, velvet voice is a caress, warm and slow, like the way Lucifer caresses his hand. Sam is cold and hot at the same time. He closes his hand tighter around Lucifer's. "Maybe I already did," Sam suggests, no less confused now than before. "Reach for what I want, I mean."

"Maybe you did." Their clasped hands are evidence made flesh and blood. "What will you have me do?"

Sam squeezes Lucifer's hand, caressing it, exploring the sensation of skin and bones, of the power that lies in Lucifer's grasp. "I don't know." It's repetitious. It is also a lie. There is this little fire in Sam's belly, one that is made up of heat and cold, of butterflies and longing and of the way Lucifer looks at him. It is a lie, for Sam knows what he wants Lucifer to do. God, does he know!

Lucifer doesn't let go of Sam's hand. Instead he gets up, forcing Sam to get up too. "What do you want, Sam?"

Sam lets him, unwilling to be willing. And yet he is drawn to Lucifer, realizing that he has run out of defiance. Sam stares at Lucifer's mouth, the longing to have Lucifer's lips under his own overwhelming him. "I want you to kiss me. Yes. Kiss me." 

Lucifer makes a sound, more a whimper than anything coherent. His fingers flutter in Sam's hand; the only sign that arrogant, confident socialite Lucifer Alighieri isn't as calm as he appears to be. "Yes."

There is a pause. Sam can't breathe. The distance between them is like a gap the width of an ocean. Ten inches the width of an ocean. "Please?"

Lucifer steps across the raging sea between them, one hand behind Sam's neck. The kiss is calm and sweet and quiet. Lucifer's lips are summer-warm although his hands are cold. A hand rests on Sam's hip, strong and safe. He tastes of salt and wine, and Sam wants more. One kiss is not enough, because the brief touch of lips frees all the longing that Sam has kept hidden for a long time. 

Maybe Lucifer sees it in his eyes, the fire that they started. "Sam..." 

The hand around the nape of Sam's neck is unrelenting, and Sam is fine with it, fine. He stares hungrily at Lucifer's mouth for a second, before he throws all caution to the wind and kisses Lucifer hard and demanding, all his desperate need turning into flaring desire. Everything else is but distractions: the apartment is too cold, and the suit is too tight, their clothes in the way, and Sam _wants_. He slides his tongue into Lucifer's mouth, his fingers inside Lucifer's clothes, anywhere he can reach, shivering from need. It's like a dam that has broken, unstoppable. 

Lucifer tenses, muscles bulging underneath Sam's hands and before he knows it, he is up against the wall, Lucifer's broad chest pressed against his own, Lucifer's mouth demanding and hungry. Sam feeds him kisses. Little dry ones, and spicy ones, and juicy, wet ones. Lucifer takes it all, moaning hoarsely when Sam withdraws to breathe, not letting go for an instant, keeping Sam against the cold brick wall; the only thing that keeps him remotely clear-headed. Sam grows hard, his pants too tight and he shifts, wanting to press his hand against the hardness. His jacket somehow loses a button that rolls across the floor to hide under the table. Lucifer's tie is annoying him, and Sam disposes of it on the floor for revenge. Lucifer's neck is warm and delightful to lick at, Sam dizzy as he kisses as far down as the collar allows him.

"Sammy," Lucifer sighs and tilts his head before he sighs again, pulling at Sam's hair, forcing him to look up. "You know what I want from you. Don't play games with me." Lucifer's plea is tense from suppressed pain. His fingers close around Sam's arms, keeping him still. "Don't play with me."

It clears Sam's head immediately, the grim reality of their budding relationship sloshed at him like a bucket of cold water. Sam thought about Lucifer a lot, different thoughts, about what kind of person Lucifer is, but he hadn't considered this, the raw, naked pain of rejection and loss that Lucifer exudes. When or why Lucifer has suffered so, Sam has no idea, but it is a wound that is still open. Sam's heart hurts at the thought of Lucifer's pain; he doesn't like it, that Lucifer has been hurt. It takes Sam less than a second to decide that he, at least, is not going to add to that pain. 

Ever. 

Which means that Sam has to make his intentions clear.

Sam presses his lips together, keeping the words in for a bit longer as he looks searchingly at Lucifer's face. Lucifer looks back at him, a slight frown in a slightly apprehensive face. Lucifer breathes out and relaxes his hold on Sam's arms. The tables are turned; this Lucifer is not the Lucifer who demanded Sam's company in exchange for Adam's life. They are here, together, naked despite their clothes, entirely exposed, their deceptive masks cruelly torn off. Sam suddenly understands that Lucifer has been honest with him all this time, even when he was crude and impolite in the beginning, before they got to know each other better.

"I'd never do that," Sam says, at a loss of where to put his hands, or what to do with himself. He raises his hand halfway to Lucifer's cheek, then gives up and places it on his chest. "I don't play games."

Lucifer sighs, his heart beating a rapid rhythm underneath Sam's hand. "Tell me again. What do you want, Sam?"

The clarity of Sam's desires is like a bright winter morning, all colors and details vivid and sharp. "You," Sam says, his voice calm and strong. "I want _you_ , Lucifer." The air he breathes disappears and Sam is dizzy with the realization that he needs Lucifer, exactly as he needs air to breathe in. Sam sees the smile that bubbles inside him reflected in Lucifer's eyes. The smile breaks out on Lucifer's mouth a moment later; the slow curl of lips makes Sam want to kiss Lucifer again.

"I can't give you what is already yours. I told you from the start what I wanted. It's up to you to decide what you want and how. I was yours before you asked, _mon chéri_ " 

"So what do we do now?" Sam sinks into Lucifer's embrace again, this time much more relaxed. It helps that he is able to breathe. He is, however, no less aroused and wanting than before.

"I think we'll have to eat some of that pie you made. I'm not going anywhere."

Sam is slightly disappointed. No, in fact he's damned disappointed. "Pie?"

Lucifer chuckles. "You have no idea how much I'd like to do things to you that has nothing to do with pie." He moves, deliberately brushing his groin over Sam's thigh. He is just as aroused as Sam, and the brief touch makes Lucifer swallow a moan. "When it happens, I want to have used the day with you, cherishing you, treating you like the temptation you are. I won't rush it; I want to worship you, show you how much I adore you." Lucifer's lips slide over Sam's, his breath ghosting over them, warm and sweet. "I will not rush it; if you still want me tomorrow, you let me know where and when. Here, at my house, in China — your choice, Sam. But not tonight."

Sam is melting despite the chill night and the inadequate heating. Lucifer is hot enough to keep Sam warm. A month ago, Sam would have believed that Lucifer would take advantage of the situation. Now he finds that he is the one without patience. Sam's world is tilting. Not only does he have to accept that his feelings for Lucifer run deep, deeper than he'd thought possible, but Lucifer is not at all like Sam thought he'd be. This Lucifer? This Lucifer is a gentleman. Sam nods, knowing that Lucifer is right: they are not going to rush. "Pie, then. It's Dean's recipe."

*

It turns out that Dean's apple pie goes well with coffee and kisses. Seated on the couch, Sam serves the hot apple pie with whipped cream. Lucifer digs in, almost as eager as Dean when there's pie to be had. It baffles Sam; Le Perdu has very good chef and Lucifer is used to the best. Lucifer's pleasure and appetite erases any doubt that Sam has had regarding Lucifer's of their very different situation and social standing. Lucifer doesn't care. Maybe it's a bit late; it still makes Sam happy that Lucifer isn't biased. He's rude, arrogant and cruel to everybody, no matter their social standing. Exception are made for those he likes, those select few. Sam is no longer in doubt that he is one of them.

Lucifer turns and offers Sam another sweet-tasting kiss. "I think it's the best dessert I've had for ages," Lucifer confesses between that kiss and the next. "There are aspects I'll never tire of. The pie wasn't too bad, either."

They indulge for some time, until they run out of pie, if not of kisses. Apple pie kisses are sweeter than any other kisses, Sam decides. The taste of sugar and apples and cinnamon mixed with the bitter taste of coffee is perfect. Sam forces his renewed arousal down, letting it turn into a slow burn of anticipation. Lucifer was right: the waiting only makes Sam's longing sweeter. Somehow they end up lying down, close together. Sam wisely keeps his hands on Lucifer's back, although he allows himself to let them stray, forcing a deep, longing moan from Lucifer when he dips below the waistline, big hands on Lucifer's firm behind.

"You make it so difficult for me," Lucifer whispers, burying his face at Sam's neck. "Good that I am very good at restraining myself."

Sam laughs and sighs at the same time. "Sure you are. You ate more than half a pie." It is difficult to be coherent because Lucifer is nibbling at his neck, sucking a mark there for everybody to see.

"I'd never do anything to you against your will," Lucifer murmurs. "I merely enjoy falling into temptation with you."

And a temptation it is, every hard inch of Lucifer, including _those_ hard inches. Part of the attraction, Sam thinks, is that Lucifer _is_ hard, plays hard. But at the core? That is the gentle man who respects Sam's every wish, the man who respects Sam for who _he_ is.

They kiss and cuddle for too long. The fire in the stove dies out, and the grim reality of Sam's poverty takes over, filling the room with the long November nights' cold, a cold that not even Lucifer's kisses are able to conquer. Sam shivers, about to apologize, when Lucifer simply gets up, grabs the old throw blankets Sam keeps for the days when he's out of money and firewood both. Perhaps Lucifer thinks that Sam is going to ask where he's going, because he puts a finger on Sam's mouth, shaking his head. 

"Two are better at keeping warm than one. Lie down," Lucifer orders, shaking out the blankets before he joins Sam on the couch again. Sam sighs, content, out of arguments and protests. Lucifer knows how to present a temptation, too. Under the heavy woolen plaids Sam warms up quickly. With Lucifer's arms around him, a few kisses and their shared body heat, Sam is relaxing, drowsy and a little sleepy, snuggling up to Lucifer. It doesn't take long before Lucifer yawns and sighs. Sam turns over, Lucifer behind him. Sam sighs again, a happy sigh. He feels safe and cared for, loved. 

He'd never thought it'd be like this with Lucifer. Drowning, burning, caught up in Lucifer's embrace, it doesn't matter. He just wants Lucifer. 

That is his last thought before sleep pulls him under.


	7. Chapter 7

The break of dawn is slow and sluggish. The gray light is cotton-ball soft, teasing Sam awake to a blessed warmth. Sam whines in annoyance of being woken up; he'd rather sleep some more, very much against getting out of bed. He stretches, strangely confined in his movements. Not his bed? His eyes snap open as the memory of his evening with Lucifer catches up with him. He should be up from the couch in a second, and yet he cannot help himself. He turns his face into Lucifer's chest, taking in the smell of night-warm skin and sleep and the vague notes of winter-cold pines that is solely Lucifer's own scent. He stays there for some time, Lucifer's arms around him, afraid to breathe or move or do anything that disturbs the perfect morning. 

Sam has panic sneaking up on him, filling him with dread, but he tries to hang on to the calmness of the early morning, wanting to prolong the quiet and the warmth that he wants so badly.

It doesn't last, however. Lucifer murmurs something unintelligible and stirs, his arm tightening around Sam's back. It's time to flee. 

It's stupid and senseless, but Sam has to get away. When he's with Lucifer he cannot _think_. It's too good, too emotional, too... something that Sam hasn't deserved. He can't handle it, being with someone who accepts everything that he is, someone who openly confesses his feelings. It's scary and wonderful, and it's the end of the world as Sam knows it.

"God, I'm a coward," he swears when he slips out from under the blankets. Without looking at Lucifer, Sam grabs his jacket and escapes before Lucifer is fully awake. He leaves a note on the coffee table, telling Lucifer to lock up when he leaves. 

Relieved that he didn't have to face an awkward morning with Lucifer, Sam steps outside into the freezing morning, regretting deeply that he didn't grab his hat and gloves on the way out. He turns left and walks toward Ezra's, before he decides that he'd rather talk to Henri. He values Ez's opinion on literature, but when it comes to emotional turmoil, Henri's razor-sharp assessments are what Sam needs.

Maybe Henri knows the answer to his fears, because Sam is too shaken to examine them himself.

*

Opening the unlocked door to Henri's workshop, Sam stops, shaking his head in denial. Henri is naked, reclining in the old barrel he uses for a bathtub. Ezra is pouring steaming water on his head. Ezra is just as naked as Henri, but unfortunately not covered by neither barrel, nor water.

"I can come back later." Sam turns around, ready to escape yet another precarious situation.

"There's a reason you're here this early. Get back in and make us some coffee," Ezra demands. "We're done, so you won't see anything that your innocent eyes cannot stomach." 

Ezra has lost his perfect command of the English language; if Sam didn't know better he'd have thought that Ez's desire for Henri was meddling with his linguistic ability. 

"My eyes? My eyes are fine, although I feel a little nauseous at the thought of them stomaching anything at all." Sam glances at Ezra. "Are you eating breakfast naked, because I can undress too; I don't mean to make you feel underdressed by any means," he adds as he turns around and walks back into the room, making sure the sarcasm is abundantly clear. Sam is used to Ez and Henri's eccentricities and Ezra _could_ say yes, but the workshop is damned cold and Sam is not going to take any clothes off.

" _Non, mon petit ami_ ," Henri declares with an exaggerated bow, little concerned about covering his naked parts. "Feed the stove and boil some water, and we shall descend, dressed and decent, hiding our nubile bodies from your discerning eyes."

"Sweet," Sam snorts, and gets to work. In a world that is windswept and overturned and unreliable, Henri and Ez are wonderfully consistent in their inconsistency.

Soon seated with a steaming cup of coffee, Sam is ready for the inevitable interrogation. 

Dressed in a quilted kimono, long johns and Wellingtons, Henri is the most unlikely investigator. He has borrowed Ezra's hat — a purple atrocity with feathers attached to it. The waving feathers and the kimono's pink roses distract Sam for a moment. He has rarely seen anything more ugly than that particular ensemble. Sam snorts derisively, suspecting Henri of having dressed in such a charming way to cheer him up.

Henri pours himself a mug. "I'm listening." He sits down across the table, so close to the small stove that Sam is afraid that he's going to catch fire. 

Sam turns his cup around and around, looking at the swirling coffee. He's not sure where to begin. 

"So, he left you, appalled by your poor living conditions?" 

Sam looks up so fast that the coffee sloshes over the rim. "No! He... No!" Sam wipes up the coffee with his sleeve, not looking at Henri. He's not sure what he feels, forced to scrutinize Lucifer's behavior, admitting his own stupidity. Maybe it's shame.

"Sam. Spit it out."

" _IlefthimandIshouldn'thavedonethat_ ," Sam rambles, his words tumbling over each other like newborn lambs on a spring meadow. He closes his eyes, wincing. Yeah, it's shame, all right.

"You _left_ him?" Ezra leans over the table, staring at Sam with wide eyes and half open mouth. "You... you left him just now? At your apartment? After he ate your food and slept in your bed?"

Sam nods. He presses his lips together, trying to come up with something to say. 

"Why?"

"Could you sit down, please, Ez?" Sam doesn't need the inquisition hovering so close. 

Ezra drags a chair to the table, the legs stumbling noisily across the uneven floor. Ez doesn't say anything. He _looks_.

Henri is more talkative. "He liked your food and your company? He stayed with you and he didn't complain about your living conditions or suggest that you should go elsewhere?" Henri frowns, studying Sam's face with an intensity that feels a little scary.

"Yes," Sam admits in a shaky voice, as if his words have turned into skittish little mice that run away and hide as not to be found. "He was... a perfect gentleman."

"Safe to say that he'd have let you know if he didn't like the location," Ezra adds. "I have rarely met a man less concerned with politeness than Monsieur Alighieri."

Sam and Henri stare at each other for a second before both are roaring with a deep-felt laughter that eases the mood a bit. 

"I assume you are laughing at me," Ezra says, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Sam. "I have no idea why I would elicit this kind of amusement."

"Spoken like the true master of politeness, Ez. I'm sure you'd prefer that we don't elaborate," Sam gasps and dries his tears. "But I could mention that it might not be the best of ideas to accuse the English of confusing social and intellectual achievement, or express your distinct wish to kick them in the teeth if you want your assessment of politeness in general to have any credibility. But you're right in this case: Lucifer would have demanded to move the feast elsewhere, probably a place that could have provided the caviar and Champagne he's used to; I suppose he didn't think either was needed."

"Yes. He'd have told you outright if he found it necessary," Henri agrees. "Hasn't he told you over and over that he always tells the truth?"

"Yes," Sam admits. "He did. And he does. It still scares me."

"And why would you think that he'd be lying to you now? He enjoyed your company, and he didn't care that you are poor. Christ Almighty, Sam... Usually your brain works much better."

Sam sinks into himself, arms around his knees. He's so stupid. "I know... but... Everything I know has suddenly been turned on its head."

"Really?" One of Henri's elegant eyebrows form a questioning and accusing arc.

"Yeah." Sam sighs deeply. "I think... I think I might be falling in love with him." As soon as the words are out, Sam knows it's an understatement. "No. I am. I am in love. Damn."

Now Henri looks as if Sam has lost it entirely. Henri takes a large gulp of his coffee before he places the cup on the table in front of him. "And the problem is?"

If Sam only knew. "He forced me into seeing him. I'd never... I'd never fallen in love with him if he hadn't coerced me into getting to know him. I mean, before... he was this awful, rude person, and I didn't... I did it for Adam, because he's such an idiot who'd never accept any help from anyone." Immediately Sam knows that what he said applies to him as well. Yeah, he's an idiot too. 

Henri has the audacity to laugh at him. "And I ask again: what is the problem? You didn't know him, and then you did, and you found out that he's a good man, and that's scary?"

"I don't _know_ any good men, except for Dean. That is not how my life is."

Ezra coughs. "Excuse me?"

"Like I said," Sam says, glaring pointedly at Ezra. "I don't know any good men. I know intelligent men, kind men, artistically gifted men, brilliant men, intellectually superior men; hell, some of them are my best friends, but I don't know any _good_ men. Why would I know any good men? I don't deser—" Sam shuts his mouth so quickly he bites his tongue. "Ouch!"

"Ouch, indeed." Henri purses his mouth, looking at Sam with a sad expression. "You refuse Monsieur Alighieri's advances because you think you don't deserve someone like him? Oh, the stupidity... Sam, I can't talk you into accepting him, but I implore you to examine the idiocy of that thought."

"I don't know what to do. I'm not used to being with people who have everything. How... I don't want to be a kept man." Sam can hear it: he sounds like a fool, rejecting good thing happening to him in favor of clinging to what he learned at an early age: being worthless, wrong, undeserving, deviant. His father had been sure to teach him that, him and Adam. 

Henri looks very tired. He leans towards Sam with an expression as if he's about to explain something to a small child. "So the problem is that Lucifer is good to you, he is rich and wants to spoil you, he can afford it and wants to give you the best? He's abundantly honest, telling you that he wants you to be his lover, publicly acknowledging your relationship? I can see how that's going to be hard to live through. I mean, the _sacrifice_ , the amount of silk shirts and cashmere suits you'll have to live with, the fantastic house, cars, money... Yeah, that has to hurt."

"It's going to hurt more when he realizes his mistake and breaks up with me to find a more fitting lover," Sam insists, running towards destruction as fast as he can. "I don't think it's a good idea, that's all. I'm not his Cinderella, and he's not my prince."

"I can't force you to see reason when you have decided to blind yourself," Henri says, sounding tired. "Monsieur Alighieri is not a pleasant man, but he might be right for you. I hope you wake up soon enough to give him a chance before it's too late."

"Or give yourself a chance," Ezra adds. "By the way you still owe him, don't you? Another dinner? At least there is hope you'll have come to your senses before then."

"Yes. And I am going to honor that promise. After that... I don't think I should—" Sam stops in the middle of the sentence, because at the end of it there is only emptiness and loneliness to be found.

"You should _what_? See? You don't even know what you are going to do without him." Ezra makes a face. "Sam, damned it! You do need to reconsider. He is not running a home for sick animals. He is not a humanitarian. He is not considering you a charity case, or some interesting project he can show off to his associates. If you weren't in love with him, fine, leave him be, but you _are_. You are refusing him because you have decided that it's too great a risk, even though it is abundantly clear that the man is more loyal than a dog, and vastly more dangerous to anyone who might try to hurt you. You want him, and you are not saying yes to him because you are too stubborn to say yes to him. You _won't_. Neither Henri or I can cure that. But let us know when you are ready for us to talk some sense into you."

Every word is a punch in the guts. Sam winces, feeling the pain of the truth sliding sharply between his ribs and into his heart. All the detours, all the excuses cut away, there is but the simple truth left: he is in love with Lucifer, and he won't do anything about it. Insecurity is a cruel mistress and Sam is under her foot. He'd thought that Henri and Ezra could help him and instead they added to the pain, if not to the confusion. Sam can't give in, won't. Oh, he knows everything that Lucifer did for him, and for Adam. But Adam's treatment is bought and paid for, everything else... that is something that Sam isn't willing to give. He has already allowed himself to indulge. He cannot continue. Lucifer is addictive, so damned addictive. Sam knows not to depend on anybody. Being chased out of Kansas, facing jail for sodomy taught him that, taught Adam and him not to believe in other people. God, they learned their lesson. Dean was the only one willing to help then. Sam has Ez and Henri, true, better friends would be hard to come by. Letting Lucifer in? Sam can't do that, he can't. Despite everything, he can't. 

Or maybe he has to admit that Henri and Ez are right: he won't. He won't let Lucifer near out of fear of being hurt again, of losing more than he has already lost.

*

Not exactly the success that Sam had wanted, speaking to Henri. He walks home from the workshop late, the afternoon already turning into evening, the darkness lurking around corners and underneath cars and coaches, ready to gnaw with its cold teeth on Sam's bones. He sneaks up the stairs to his apartment, not entirely sure whether he wants Lucifer to be there, waiting for him to come home.

The key is too loud and the door creaks when Sam gets inside. The apartment is quiet and cold, as if the winter has already taken over and decided to stay. Sam turns on the light. There is no trace of Lucifer, except for a note, written on the backside of the note that Sam left for him this morning. Sam looks at the fluent, secure writing, the words suddenly blurred by Sam's confusion and suppressed emotions. He blinks the tears away to be able to read. It's a poem.

_Like black ice_  
 _Scrolled over with unintelligible patterns_  
 _by an ignorant skater_  
 _Is the dulled surface of my heart._

Sinking down on the floor, back against the wall, Sam tries to hold back the tears. Oh, he'd never learned to skate, that much is evident. It's unbearable how much he hurt Lucifer, just by fleeing from him at a time where it'd hurt the most. His indecisiveness has turned into a rapier of callousness. If the poem is in any way representing Lucifer's feelings — and Sam has no reason to believe otherwise — Sam has underestimated the depth and the seriousness of Lucifer's feelings, of his passion and love.

He never meant to hurt Lucifer, nor did he mean to ignore his own emotions so blatantly. And yet he did, maybe ruining the only chance for true, eternal love he'll ever have.

Overwhelmed by his own idiocy and the inability of determining what to do, Sam walks around in the small apartment for a while, restless and uncomfortable. He is searching for something, although he doesn't know what he's looking for. He rummages through his belongings, moving a book from here to there, then using some time on rearranging his notes and his small stock of notebooks and pencils. It doesn't matter what he does, he feels empty nevertheless, as if his insistence that he cannot be with Lucifer has drained him of feelings. 

Sam's aimless rummaging leads him to the closet where the suit he borrowed from Lucifer is stored, cleaned and wrapped in brown paper, ready to be handed back to its rightful owner. That Lucifer had it fitted to Sam's longer legs is ignored; Sam does not want hand-me-down charity, nor is he sure that Lucifer wanted him to keep the clothes. The suit serves a purpose, however: it pulls Sam out of his inertia. He knows what he has to do. Sam's heart stops a heartbeat or two at his sudden plunge into action before it trundles on, heavy and noisy with doubt and longing. 

He turns, parcel in one hand, before he strides towards the door, leaving his apartment, again forgetting hat and gloves. It doesn't matter. He has to see Lucifer, and he has to see him now. He needs to speak to him, attempt to bridge the abyss of ice and darkness that has suddenly appeared between them, all Sam's doing. Not that Sam is any closer to a decision, but he owes Lucifer. He owes him one more dinner, and he owes him an explanation, and most of all he owes him to be truthful to him. In that regard, Ezra is right: Lucifer has been nothing but honest, and Sam wants to be honest as well, even though it doesn't provide Lucifer with an answer, not a definite one, that is.

On foot it takes almost an hour to reach Lucifer's stately home near _Bois de Boulogne_. _Le 16e arrondissement_ is so far away from Sam's everyday life that it could just as well have been on the other side of the globe. The evening hasn't turned any warmer, and Sam walks quickly, hands deep in his pockets, to at least get a little warm. He crosses _La Seine_ , the river's open space and the wide boulevards leaving room for the wind to pick up. The air smells of early winter. Tired and cold, Sam turns down _Avenue Mozart_ , only then considering that Lucifer might not be at home at all. 

Suddenly reluctant, Sam walks up the few steps to Lucifer's Art Nouveau _palais_ , hesitating but a heartbeat before he lets the heavy door knocker fall hard against the brass plate, the sound vibrating sharply in the silent street. 

Restless, Sam shifts the package from one arm to the other and back again before he decides to carry it by the string. Nothing can be heard through the heavy oak door, and Sam is about to give up and leave when the door opens.

Sam turns so fast he almost drops the parcel. "Good evening," he says politely. "Is Lucifer home by any chance?"

Bonheur, the elderly butler, is expressionless. Sam assumes that it's a talent that he has developed to perfection, serving the Alighieris in general and Lucifer in particular. "I shall inquire, Monsieur. Entrez, s'il vous plaît."

The hall is blessedly warm. Sam leaves the parcel on a chair that doesn't look too expensive. He unbuttons his coat to let the heat seep into his frozen bones. He can be out of here in seconds; better enjoy it while it lasts. Muted voices slither into the hall, distant. Sam fiddles with a loose button, trying to distract himself. What if Lucifer doesn't want to see him? What if Sam has ruined their relationship irrevocably? Maybe it's for the best? Adam is cared for even if Lucifer chooses to terminate their agreement. Michael will never let Adam go, and Gabriel won't let a patient leave; he is too fond of his experiments. Uneasy, Sam walks the hall, back and forth, a caged animal ready to start gnawing at his own paw to get free of the mess in his head. 

Bonheur returns. "Monsieur Alighieri will receive you in his office, Monsieur. Please, follow me."

Sam's confusion turns into a turmoil of regret and want. He can barely keep a straight face in front of the old butler. Luckily Bonheur turns without looking back to see if Sam is following him, as if he senses Sam's distress and wants to leave him room to express it without being watched. Sam grabs the parcel, clinging to it as a drowning man would to a piece of driftwood as he is led into the huge mansion.

Lucifer's office is small and cramped, nothing like Sam imagined the office of a hugely successful businessman. It's dark and cave-like, very different from the large, beautiful rooms that Sam has seen. A fire is burning in the fireplace, making the small space almost too warm. 

Lucifer is standing in front of the roaring fire, staring into the flames like the heat doesn't bother him at all. His face is shrouded in shadows, only his eyes seem to light up when the flames flare. He doesn't say anything.

Neither does Sam, at least not for a while. He doesn't know what to say. _I'm sorry. I never want to see you again. I want you. I hate you. I love you. Don't ask me to leave._ There are possibilities enough, only Sam can't pick one. That's the problem in a nutshell. If he decides on one, he'd have made his choice, and there will be no going back, no regrets, no changing the game.

"The suit," Sam says, because it's safe and neutral. He takes a step into the room, far enough to put down the parcel on the cluttered desk. "Thank you for lending it to me. I had it dry cleaned." He more or less expects Lucifer to tell him that he can keep it, but Lucifer doesn't.

"That's what it's about, isn't it?" Lucifer pokes at the package. "You see, I'd never sink as low as to let you wear my old clothes, apart from that day when you needed a suit. I'd never sink so low as to offer them to you, as if you were some kind of..." Lucifer turns around, his eyes blazing a fire that vastly outburns the fire in the fireplace. "As if you were some kind of secondhand trinket, not worthy of my love and adoration."

"I—" Sam begins, but Lucifer cuts him off.

"I'm doing the talking now." Lucifer is angry, a low simmer of rage and hurt. "If I thought it would help, I'd give my last franc away for you. I'd live with you in a cave, anywhere you'd want me to go, but it still doesn't change the fact that I have promised you to take care of you, that I'd give you everything if you decided that you'd be with me. It would not take very long before I was rich again, and you'd still be poor. Unless poetry starts paying off better than it does these days."

"But—"

"No, Sam. Listen: when you invited me to your home, didn't you do your best? Didn't you do your best to cook for me? Didn't you use the last of your money— no, don't deny it; Monsieur Pound told me. You spent everything you had for me, and yet it is a problem for you if I do the same."

"Lucifer, please—"

"I am what I am. I am ruthless in business. You can take everything away from me, and I will come back, more successful than before. You, on the other hand, are one of the most talented poets of our generation, and that is something that money cannot buy. You are rich in talent. Why can't you understand that we are equals? I have a talent, you have another. You are not worth less than me, on the contrary! Because that's what bothers you, I know it is, that you think you aren't worthy because of numbers on a bank account."

Sam isn't denying anything, firstly because Lucifer doesn't let him, and secondly because it'd be a blatant lie. Lucifer would spot it immediately; he is like a hound on a trail when it comes to lies. It doesn't make the truth an easy pill to swallow, though. 

Lucifer isn't done. "If you do not let me strain and sacrifice for you like you strained and sacrificed for me, how can we be equal then? You think that it is about money, but it isn't. It's about dedication, Sam. About giving everything. Why are you allowed to decide how it is done, and I am not? You do not want me to make your life easier, you do not allow me to dress you, or make sure you aren't cold. You do not allow me to show my feelings for you, and yet you came willingly to my bed... that would be your couch. You are one big bundle of contradictions. You hand out your grace in measured, inadequate amounts; a kiss, a night of pure bliss, sleeping with you in my arms. You want me, and you don't want me. I don't know what to do but to retreat from this unfair battle."

Lucifer closes his eyes, his face abundantly sad. He has run out of steam and he sinks down in the nearest chair, defeated. "I don't know what to do with you. I don't think I want to see you again. It's too painful." Lucifer looks up. The anger is gone. "I have never wanted anything or anyone as much as I want you. I'm in love with you, Sam, and if I can't have you, let's at least give my heart time to heal." Lucifer's expression turns cold, as if a small ice age suddenly has decided to envelop the room. "I release you from our agreement."

The glacier in Lucifer's eyes creates a coldness in Sam that makes him freeze on the spot. This is not going the way Sam wanted it to go, not now, not when the choice has been taken from him. He is breathless from pain. Verity hurts, and every word that Lucifer speaks _is_ true. 

"No!" 

That's all Sam has left to say. All his life he has put his pain into words, onto paper, but right here he has no words left. There are no words that can describe the loss. It should be a relief, a clean break. He is free of his promise, free of Lucifer. He should rejoice, not mourn. 

It clearly takes a brutal blow to clear his mind because in that exact moment all Sam's conflicting thoughts decide to make peace with each other. It's like the sun on a clear blue sky; a moment of enlightenment and insight. All doubt, all fear has been erased in one icy, windswept refusal. Sam needs Lucifer, wants him, _loves_ him. He cannot lose him, not now. 

"Please, no." Sam closes his fists, tense and filled with a dread that is nothing like the doubt and fear he felt before. This is _real_!

"I'm sorry, Sam, but that is how it has to be. I asked you not to play with me, and you did, perhaps not on purpose. I am loyal to a fault, and it might be a fault, too, that I demand the same from the people I allow into my life and... into my heart." Lucifer's voice is like winter, cold and dark and empty. "Bonheur will see you out."

Sam knows this is the moment to fight back, to stand up for himself, to fight for what he wants. He straightens up. "No!" he repeats with a strength he didn't think he had. "We had a deal, Lucifer! Three dinners. You still owe me one." Sam takes a step forward, as if to underline that he is more than standing his ground. He is ready to fight for the man he wants. 

He is finally ready to fight for love.

Lucifer looks at him for some time, sad and curious at the same time. "All right. I gave you my word, and I will not refuse you if you insist. _One_ evening. And when that is over, I want you out of my life."


	8. Chapter 8

The blankets smell of pine cones and winter forests. Sam breathes in warm air, breathes out. One breath, then another, both tired and unwanted. He doesn't move, but stays curled up like a wounded dog hiding under a bush, waiting to die. But death doesn't come, even though the room is cold and dark like a grave. Sam is sure that being dead isn't this painful. He drifts in and out of sleep; at least when he's sleeping, he doesn't hurt, nor does he think about how he hurt Lucifer. Hunger comes and goes, too: hunger for food he doesn't have, hunger for the man he cannot have. Sam wishes that he hadn't fallen in love with Lucifer at all, since all that comes from it is suffering. At his darkest moments he wonders if Lucifer is in hell, too. Sam thinks that he might be.

Once in a while the world that exists outside Sam's helplessness and grief rears its ugly head. Ezra has been knocking on the door twice, and so has Henri. Sam can't manage to manage. He leaves his small cave only to drink a little water or to go to the bathroom: trips into a reality he would rather be without. The mirror on the wall shows him nothing but an emaciated ghost, lank hair hanging like wet seaweed around a pale face. No wonder Lucifer didn't want him. Sam fights his way through the freezing apartment, battling the cruel little insecurities that attack his determination with sharp teeth and deep-digging claws. Back in his nest of blankets, the only place that is remotely warm, Sam sinks into despair again, unable to do anything but to breathe, one painful intake of air after another.

He falls asleep again, somewhere between regret and tears; the only landmarks for time that he has. The striking clock on the wall has stopped at some point; Sam hasn't cared to wind it up. When he wakes up again, the apartment is dark — darker — and cold as ice. Maybe it's the freezing cold that gets to Sam. Shivering, he sits up, the heavy woolen blankets wrapped around his shoulders. He is not dead, but he could as well be. He almost wishes he was. 

"So, Winchester," he says, the words hanging in the emptiness of the room. "What are you going to do? Stay buried or get up and fight?"

The answer is an easy one although getting up and actually do it is damned difficult.

Even if Lucifer refuses to see him again, Sam has Adam to take care of. Sam has friends that care for him, good friends who would go to their deaths for him. He can't just lie here and leave the world to its own devices. Sam wants Lucifer to understand that he didn't mean to leave him so cruelly, and for that, Sam needs to face the world. He wants Lucifer to know that he _never_ played with him, even if Lucifer refuses to reconcile. Sam probably doesn't stand a chance, getting Lucifer back, not that he had him in the first place — all he had was the _possibility_ and he ruined that so beautifully. Sam decides that he is the biggest fool on Earth. How could he have been so blind as not to see Lucifer's love for him? 

It has been painful to learn to see, and Sam doesn't expect it to be less painful to use that sense, outside, in the world that has gone on without him for the last few days.

Realizing that he doesn't even know what day it is, Sam gets up from the couch. He rummages around for candles and finds one. He lights it, as to at least to have a little light and warmth. There is no firewood, and no money left for any. He has only the few francs necessary for the bus so that he can visit Adam once his operation is done. Whenever that is. _Great_ , Sam berates himself. _I even forgot about Adam_. 

It's desperate and claustrophobic, being boxed in by life, by circumstances he cannot control. Shivering, Sam walks into the kitchen, finding a wrinkled apple and a piece of leftover bread that hasn't gone stale. He munches on the bread, mourning the lack of hot water for tea. He doesn't have any appetite, but the food helps a little, reminding him that he needs to get up and _do_ something to get his life back, and Lucifer with it. Eating the apple slowly as not to upset his stomach, Sam tries to figure out how many days he's been hiding. He thinks it has only been two days, but it feels like an eternity of torment.

He washes in the kitchen to at least appear remotely clean and less smelly. The thorough wash up helps; Sam is feeling a little better, like the sponge bath has been preparation for battle. There is so much that can go wrong, lethal mistakes to be made; any move might kill the suffering remains of the love Lucifer had for him. 

Sam tries to make a plan as he sits in the cold living room, gnawing nervously at his nails. First he needs to speak to Adam. His brother is, despite everything, Sam's first priority. Surgery has to be in a day or two. He needs a telephone. A place to borrow one, at least. Neither Ezra, nor Henri have one. The solution is Le Perdu. The staff know him well enough to allow him to use the telephone for a minute. It's humiliating to ask, especially if Lucifer is present, but the lack of money and time forces Sam to do things he'd never have done otherwise. Shame and integrity have to go. Pride has to be laid to rest. Sam is at a new low, and it can only go up from there, he thinks. He can just as well get used to it. The honest apology he wants to give Lucifer can have no traces of pride or falsehood. 

Freezing, cold to the bone, but hot from determination, Sam pulls on his coat. This time he remembers gloves and hat, both making him feel a little warmer. He leaves his dark and gloomy apartment and walks quickly towards Le Perdu.

*

The queue in front of Le Perdu is long, and Sam sighs at the sight of dressed-up, happy people. He rudely jumps the line, attempting to see who's in front, manning the box office. For once, Sam is relieved to see it is Mademoiselle Ruby — she'll let him in no matter what Lucifer has told her; she would love to do the exact opposite just out of spite, or for the opportunity to needle Sam about Adam or anything that Mlle Ruby finds hurtful. He goes with it and waves at her. Her pretty face turns wry at the sight of him, and he nods and walks past her. Lucifer could have revoked his permission to come and go as he likes, but since Mlle Ruby doesn't stop him, Lucifer's defenses are not as strong as they could have been. There are chinks in the armor: Lucifer doesn't despise him enough to stop him from coming to Le Perdu. Maybe hope isn't lost?

Sam leaves his coat with the wardrobe mistress. She takes it with a smile. "It has been a while, Monsieur. How is your brother? We miss him."

"Thank you, fine." Sam is happy to talk about Adam, mostly because he is touched that Mademoiselle Adina is kind enough to inquire about him, but also because it is the perfect opening for Sam to ask to borrow the telephone in the office in the back. "Dr Alighieri, Monsieur Alighieri's brother, is going to perform surgery to collapse his lung," Sam tells her. "I'm worried, but I am sure Dr Alighieri is a brilliant doctor. He tells me that Adam should feel much better when the sores in his lung are healed." Worry for Adam and longing for Lucifer mingle and turn too heavy, almost impossible to bear. Sam needs to breathe in deeply a few times. He cannot break now, not again, not in front of Lucifer's employee. 

"I'm glad. I like your brother." Mlle Adina puts a hand on Sam's, patting it to comfort him; maybe she is sensing his distress. "He has always been polite to me."

Sam cannot keep himself from smiling and it makes his mood lighter. Mlle Adina is a little like Adam herself, sharp and slightly sarcastic at times. "You say that as if it's a rare occurrence."

Mlle Adina laughs. "You are speaking about Adam, your brother? Of course it's a rare occurrence. Please, tell him I wish him a fast recovery."

Sam grabs the opening immediately. "I could do that right away if you... if you would permit me to use the telephone for a minute?"

"Oh, you smooth bastard!" Mlle Adina sees right through him. "Come on then. And don't speak for too long. I don't want to get in trouble. Monsieur will not be pleased if he finds out. And I have work to do, so be quick." 

True that, since a group of patrons is entering at that exact moment.

Sam slips through the door next to the counter. "I promise. Thank you!" He sounds so relieved that Mlle Adina looks at him with surprise, all soft-eyed and compassionate before she turns to a gentleman who is trying to hand her a long, white fur coat.

In the back of the room, Sam sits down next to the telephone, ready to call the sanatorium. Paris's telephone lines are horrible: usually one either ends up waiting, or being connected to the wrong number. Not that Sam uses telephones much; few of his friends have them. But luck is with him, he is switched through to the sanatorium's reception immediately. There is another wait for Adam to come to take the call at the nurses' office; Adam is not the fastest of walkers, for apparent reasons. 

Sam lets out a deep sigh when he finally hears shuffling and rustling through the telephone. 

"Michael says you're an idiot." Adam sounds a little out of breath, like he hurried to take the call. 

"Delighted to speak to you too," Sam snaps, despite his relief that Adam is well enough to be up and around. "I suppose Michael is right."

"Michael is always right," Adam states, ignoring that he'd been fighting Michael for months before he gave in to the persistent courting. "You have to have done something terrible to have Lucifer in such a state. Michael says that Lucifer doesn't want to speak to him about it. So what is it?"

"Adam."

"Yes?"

"Could we talk about that when you are better? When... I— Gabriel hasn't... the operation? When?"

There's a deep sigh. "Did you cancel your membership of 'I'm in this world' club? Have you been writing?"

"No. I... I didn't know what to do with Lucifer and I hurt him and now he doesn't want me, and it's not like I forgot about you, but I didn't think it'd be this hard—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

"Please, Adam?" Sam is not going to explain the situation in detail, or discuss it, not when the telephone he is using belongs to Lucifer and his staff is around. "I'll come out tomorrow. When the procedure is over. If you want me to visit, that is."

Adam snorts. "You better. And get things sorted out with Lucifer. One whining brother is enough. Lucifer is in a mood which means Michael is in a mood."

"If only it was that easy," Sam says before he hangs up. "If only."

*

Sam knows he should be heading home. It is awkward to be at Le Perdu. But 'home' doesn't feel like it, not with Adam gone, and the rooms cold and dark, devoid of life. Le Perdu is warm and Sam is reluctant to leave. He doesn't have money for coffee or food or a drink, but he decides to take a look and see if any of his friends are here; they share what they have, that's the way it has always been. Sam is not dressed for an evening out, but as Le Perdu caters to the Bohème, nobody is going to ask him to leave although his threadbare suit might earn him a curious glance or two. But they let Ezra in, and even Sam are boggled at times at the sight of Ezra's colorful ensembles: they are at times a little too inspired by Picasso's colorful paintings. Le Perdu's staff has seen worse than an old suit.

On stage, four dancers are performing an act with little purpose and a lot of frills and silk stockings and _rond de jambes_ , which in itself is a purpose, Sam assumes. If one likes silk stockings and ladies' thighs. The music is loud and fast, welling over Sam like a particularly violent and furious wave, forcing him back into the dark, leaning against one of the rocaille-covered, gilded pillars; the fake rococo design opposing Sam's poor suit with its distasteful opulence. 

Luckily there is no Lucifer in sight, and Sam is relieved. The thought of his could-have-been lover is throwing Sam right back in the ocean of misery he'd been trying not to drown in for the last couple of days. _God,_ he misses Lucifer so. Sam presses his nails into his palms to distract himself, exchanging one kind of pain with another, more manageable one. It helps little and hurts a lot. Sam rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, making an honest attempt to find his way back to the shore. He is not going to cry, he is _not_!

He gets back to the brink, almost safe, only to be pulled out and down by the undertow. 

"Did Alighieri leave you here like a forgotten umbrella, Winchester? Did he find a more appropriate bedfellow? Like someone with a cunt and breasts? Someone who isn't going to ruin his reputation?"

Sam turns around very slowly, the desperate pain turning into rage. "Jealous, Lewis?" he sneers, loud enough to be heard over the music, low enough that nobody else can hear. "Such bitterness. I assume it _is_ hard to be turned down by every woman with eyes and a fully functioning brain. Good that you lack in looks what you don't have in charm. Any lady must find you appalling, because I guarantee you that any man would prefer abstinence to you."

Wyndham Lewis is about to answer, a mean glint in his eyes, but Sam decides on the spot that wasting time on trash like Lewis is... an utter waste of time. As Lewis is a painter first, he still seems to be caught up in the attempt to come up with a colorful retort — one which Sam is not staying to hear. Sam steps out from the shadow of the pillar, only to walk directly into the man he'd have liked to run into the most — and the least. 

The music stops and the applause is too loud for anything to be heard. Lucifer just stares at Sam, entirely expressionless, apart from his eyes. Sam stares back, the noise thundering in his ears. Or maybe it is his heart. The applause dies out, and Lucifer moves, taking a step back, only then looking at Wyndham Lewis. 

Lucifer's nose wrinkles. "Has Mr Lewis been bothering you?" he asks Sam, not wasting a word on Lewis.

"He always bothers me," Sam replies, pretending that the croaking sounds that come out of his mouth are actual syllables. Lucifer's inquiry makes his throat constrict around words and tears alike. Lucifer still cares. 

"Very well." Lucifer makes a mocking bow. "I believe your friends are seated a few rows down, Mr Winchester. I am certain that _they_ will be elated to see you. If you'll excuse me, I'll see to Mr Lewis's wellbeing."

Maybe Lucifer doesn't care at all. It's a dismissal if there ever was one. _Mr Winchester_ hurts. "Lucifer, please?" Sam tries, forgetting that Lewis is standing right next to them.

"No." Lucifer turns around, cold. "Mr Lewis," he says and grabs Wyndham's arm. "And _your_ friends, I believe, are in the gutter. Or possibly rummaging around in the garbage for scraps. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to keep cockroaches out of the kitchen. I suggest you join them, Monsieur, because you are no longer welcome in my establishment. Now that I think of it, you were never welcome, merely tolerated. My tolerance, unfortunately, has come to an end when it comes to you. Good night, Monsieur."

Wyndham yanks his arm free. "As if I'd frequent a place owned by a known sodomist and pervert! You disgust me, both of you! Deviants!" Lewis strides out, babbling about the natural order and gross indecency. Luckily most of Lewis's offensive verbiage is drowned out by the music that starts again, although some of it is loud enough to let Sam get the gist of it.

"Not a great loss," Lucifer comments with a shrug. "Lewis truly is a despicable human being," he elaborates, aimed at no one in particular, before he nods, barely polite, in Sam's direction. "Mr Winchester."

Sam leaves all shame and pride behind. He steps in front of Lucifer, preventing him from walking away. "Don't do this to me. Let me explain."

Lucifer is still ice and winter, the cold anger still flaring in his eyes. "You did it to yourself."

Sam's legs are barely able to keep him standing, the entire situation too much to bear. Lucifer is right; he really did this to himself. If he hadn't been so afraid to take what Lucifer had offered him from the beginning, if only he had trusted Lucifer, he didn't have to stand here, on the edge of self-destruction. "I was an idi—"

"Did you not understand me the first time? I have nothing further to say to you." Lucifer is entirely without mercy.

Sam would beg if he thought it would help, so he doesn't. His body might be weak, but his mind has decided to go into the battle, not that it is much of a weapon compared to Lucifer's smooth-cold glacier defense. All Sam has for leverage is their agreement: Adam's health in exchange for Sam's compliance. "Gabriel is going to operate on Adam tomorrow."

The change of topic is sudden and surprising enough to make Lucifer hesitate. "Michael told me."

"Are you going to wait with Michael tomorrow? Until Adam is awake?"

Lucifer doesn't answer, nor does he look at Sam. It takes some time before he replies, not that it is much of a reply. Sam takes what he can get. At least they are speaking. 

"Are you on your way home, or do you stay for the show?" Lucifer says.

"Home, I think. I don't think I should stay, not after... Wyndham." Sam frowns, unsure why Lucifer asks; but clearly there will be no opening, no soft spot, no mellow, forgiving Lucifer. 

"I'll walk you out." Lucifer starts walking towards the exit, his back straight and tense with silent anger. Outside, in the foyer, he stops. "It is not an invitation for more than transportation. I am driving to Petit Fontainebleau tomorrow at two. You will be ready, or I will leave without you. You may have the back seat, and I will not engage in any conversation with you. As per our agreement, you get what you asked for, exactly what we agreed upon and no more. One dinner. When it suits me. Tomorrow is... merely courtesy."

Lucifer's anger is contagious "Or I could take the bus as not to put up with your self-satisfied idiocy. You are angry at me, you refuse to hear an explanation or an apology, but if you have decided not to be civil, I prefer the bus, thank you very much."

"You can't afford to say no." 

The arrogant glare Lucifer sends Sam makes him snap, almost. Before Sam was caught up in sadness, he is now shaking from anger. Lucifer knows where to hit to make it matter. "Not only can I afford it, but I'd pay double as not to have to deal with your childish moping." Sam wants to get out. He's had enough. He never intended to hurt Lucifer, he never wanted to offend him. Right now they are two people speaking foreign languages that the other has never heard of. It is pointless to continue. 

It still takes all the strength Sam has left to raise his head and walk away.

He is about to step outside when quick steps ra-ta-ta against the polished tiles. "Winchester! Wait!"

The cold November wind that stretches its icy fingers through the door cools Sam down enough to be able to rein himself in. "What?" he asks, voice low and filled with rage. "I'm poor, you don't want me; you made it all too clear how my company disgusts you. So leave me alone."

"I apologize for those remarks. They were uncalled for."

"It's not just the remarks, _Alighieri_ ," Sam snaps, ready to bite again. "And I'll have no more of it. Good night."

"Sam." Lucifer puts a hand on Sam's arm. "It is all I am able to offer you: an apology for my cruel remarks, and a ride to see Adam. No more. We will both adhere to polite conversation for the duration. I think that would be best. But let me take you to see Adam tomorrow. I do not think we should let our brothers suffer because we are no longer... friends."

The loneliness and the loss slam into Sam, breaking his heart once more, not that he thought that there were more parts left to break. Apparently there is. His stomach turns into a knot at Lucifer's measured declaration. It is worse, worse than Lucifer when he is angry or sad or anything but this blank, smooth surface of black ice, impossible to see through. "Thank you for your kind offer, Monsieur," Sam says, forcing his emotion under control, hard reins and sharp bridle. "But two doesn't suit me at all. Good night."

He turns on his heel, walking out into the night, leaving Lucifer behind. 

Sam has never felt so lonely in his life.


	9. Chapter 9

The rain is a slow, heavy drizzle, and the fog creeps down Sam's neck, making him shiver. He is cold to the bone, and so hungry and tired that he is barely standing. His mind is the same gray fog: fear for Adam's life combined with the emotional exhaustion of hating Lucifer and being in love with him at the same time. Clutching a small box with gifts for Adam from their friends, Sam hurries from the bus stop to the sanatorium, walking as fast as possible through the sloshes of cold rain the skies send down on him. Somehow it makes Sam laugh in defiance: his life is an abyss of misery and he has no idea of how to stop it.

Maybe seeing Adam out of surgery, perhaps even speak with him a little will drive out the feeling of deep loneliness that has haunted Sam since Lucifer declined his advances. Or since he declined Lucifer's.

As it is, Sam is a ghost in his own life, walking through it, powerless and weak, and he feels as if he has can't get up from the grave he dug for himself. "So stupid," he murmurs, dizzy with hunger, and with hunger for his life to return to normal. 

Like the life he had before Adam and he met the Alighieri-brothers. Except Adam would be dead, had it not been for Michael's help. 

The nurse at the reception is busy speaking into the telephone, jotting down notes. Sam nods even though she pays him little attention, and he continues up the stairs to Adam's room. No need to inconvenience the staff when he knows where he's going.

He pushes the door open. "Adam?" he whispers quietly as not to wake Adam up if he's asleep. 

There's no answer. 

There is no Adam.

There is no Adam, no Michael, nothing but the empty room. Michael's small collection of office supplies is gone, and so is Adam's fur plaid, his clothes, his... _life_?

The feeling of dread is so strong that it makes Sam fumble for something sturdy to lean on, and with both hands clutching at the side of the bed, Sam tries not to sink into the alluring darkness that lurks around the corners of his conscious mind. _It can't be, it can't be,_ flashes through his mind again and again. Adam is well, he is here somewhere, he is not dead, he _can't_ be. Brain muddled with fear, Sam collects the last remains of his sanity and strength and straightens up, not at all ready to face a reality that might be more bleak than anything Sam has imagined, even in his worst nightmares.

With every movement, every breath measured out, under tight control, Sam walks outside, refusing to break. He cannot break. He won't. His life can't sink any lower now, with everything lost. He holds on to the glimmer of hope — that Adam is still in surgery — and braces himself for the worst. 

"Monsieur Winchester?" The nurse from downstairs steps up to him, putting a hand on his arm. "Are you well, Monsieur?" Her face is worried and kind. 

"No, I..." Sam suddenly lacks words. It's happening all too frequently lately. "Adam? My brother..."

Her eyes light up with understanding. "Ah! He is in the hospital wing. Messieurs Alighieri are with him. I am sorry; did nobody tell you that they would move him?"

"I thought..." Sam begins and has to sit down. "I thought that maybe he was..." Sam hadn't even known that the sanatorium had a dedicated wing, but of course they have. The airy, large rooms in the main building are more like bedrooms and living rooms combined and not safe enough for patients who need intensive care in a sterile environment. 

"I believe we have a bottle of Cognac at the office. I am not a doctor, but I _will_ prescribe the immediate consumption of a glass. For health purposes, of course." She puts her hand on Sam's back, urging him to walk with her, gentle but firm. "Come on, Monsieur. I will accompany you to your brother when you have composed yourself a little."

"I am composed," Sam lies. "Is he well? Did the operation go well? What did Gabriel say? Is—"

" _After_ ," the nurse insists, taking his arm. "But your brother _is_ well. It is not a difficult procedure, not very invasive, and he is awake and not in too much pain. Dr Alighieri is very, very good at what he does."

Sam is faint with relief. He clings to the offered arm, hand shaking. He concentrates again, willpower winning over his weak, emaciated body. _Alive, alive, alive_ , his heart beats. Adam is alive. Sam's brain isn't really working very well these days; of course Adam is safe and alive. Still, the offered Cognac is alluring; Sam's nerves are as torn and frayed as his old coat, and he need them to be patched up before he faces Adam. The strong kick of alcohol on an empty stomach won't be unwelcome. Sam does not want to make Adam worry about _his_ health.

*

It is damned difficult to live if Adam is to say so. The weather is awfully damp, making it harder to breathe properly. The wind sloshes yet another shower of rain against the window. Adam's chest hurts. It is but a small wound, invisible now that it is covered in bandages. But it is deep, and the needle certainly wasn't small. It feels like Gabriel inserted the needle and poked around with it before he used it to let air into his pleural cavity, forcing his left lung to collapse. The few stitches are nothing in comparison. Robbed of half the capacity to breathe, Adam feels almost as ill as before he was taken to Petit Fontainebleau. With closed eyes, he gets into a rhythm, slowly getting used to the slight oxygen-deprived state he must endure for the next few months, until both his lungs are healed.

Trying to let go of the tension that comes with being unable to breathe properly, Adam cannot stop himself from thinking about the future, the future that might be a good bit longer than before the procedure. God, if only it works so that he can have time with Michael. It has to work! Even here, lying in bed, in pain, and fighting to get enough oxygen into his one functioning lung, Adam is so happy. Dying now, when he is so content and in love.... No, he cannot do that. 

Without opening his eyes, he squeezes the hand that is wrapped tightly around his own. 

"I love you," Michael whispers. His lips are warm as he kisses Adam's hand. "I love you so much."

Adam smiles. He is happy with Michael; he has never been doted on and taken care of like Michael takes care of him. Always bordering stiff and proper in public, Michael is passionate when they are alone, the lover that Adam has wanted all his life. Even now, Michael doesn't move, but sits in a chair at his side, reading a book, never letting go of Adam's hand, but handling the book and turning the pages with his free hand rather than to break the contact between them. Adam drifts back into sleep without really sleeping. He is still under the influence of the anesthetic, slightly nauseous and it feels good just to give in to it. 

"You're a fool," Adam tells Michael when he surfaces again, a little more clear-headed, and looks at his man with adoration. "Stupid."

Michael shakes his head and leans in to kiss Adam on the mouth. Michael is a good translator. He knows exactly what Adam is saying: take care of yourself too. At least Adam thinks so. "Do you need me to fetch Gabriel? Are you in any pain? Are you hungry?" Michael offers.

"Stop fussing," Adam demands, keeping to short sentences. It's all he has air for until he gets used to his left lung's minimal capacity. "I'm fine. Not hungry." Bile rises at the thought of food. "Lucifer?"

"Went to have coffee with Gabriel. He'll be back."

"Any wiser?"

"I doubt it. My brother's ability to interact with other people is only remotely better than _your_ brother's. Even Gabriel can't fight that. Believe me, he tries."

"Stupid too. Sam." If Adam hadn't been in bed with a hole in his chest he'd personally have beaten some sense into Lucifer's thick skull. As it is, he'll have select words with him later. Seeing that Adam is only able to get out short sentences, it will be a truly special selection. "Water?"

"Yes. He... " Michael reaches for a jug and pours a glass for Adam, finally releasing his hand as not to spill water everywhere. He eases his hand under the nape of Adam's neck and helps him up, clever enough not to attempt to do anything but to hand him the glass. "When Lucifer and I weren't on friendly terms it took us ten years to get over it. We are good at many things, and holding a grudge for too long might be something we have practiced into perfection."

"You too."

"What?"

"Grudge."

"Yes." Michael admits willingly. "Lucifer is unreasonable at times, but... his love never is. When he is hurt he reacts to it with the same strength as when he loves. It's a natural disaster, a catastrophe waiting to happen when he feels scorned. When we were fighting I knew how it hurt him, and still I was stubborn and ignored it, knowing that he was hurting. He hurt more than he hated me. We were both at fault."

"Sam?" Adam drinks a few mouthfuls of water, relieved that they stay down. "Must understand. We..." Adam gasps for air again and has to wait until he can speak without suffocating himself. "Make Sam understand."

"Darling, please. I swear I'll speak to them both. Don't strain... it's too much for you." Michael is fussing again, to the extent where he is making Adam laugh, wheezing and coughing. 

"Should I get a nurse?"

"I love you," Adam gasps; laughing and speaking at the same time is impossible. Adam is both happy and sad. Why the hell can't his idiot brother and stupid Lucifer not _understand_ that they are made for each other too? With his arms around Michael's neck, breathing in deeply, he has oxygen enough to tell Michael one more time: "Love you."

Oh, Adam loves it when Michael's eyes turn velvet soft for him. And if it's the last thing he does, Adam wants Sam to have Lucifer look at him like that, all warmth and love, no ice cold disdain. No... the last thing he'll ever do will be to kiss Michael. And the first, so Adam kisses him again. And again, and then again, not stopping until they are interrupted by a slight cough that comes from the hall outside.

"Not on the verge of leaving this world in favor of the afterlife, I see," Lucifer says. "How wonderful for the both of you."

Michael pulls back, his mouth wet and so kissable that Adam looks at it with some appetite, which again keeps Michael from looking away until he has taken yet another kiss.

"Children," Lucifer says, this time rather coldly. "Could you rein in your enthusiasm, please."

Michael looks at him with a coldness to match Lucifer's. "Today, as at all other times, my lover's wish is my command. If you let that idea guide you, you wouldn't be standing there, complaining about kissing. You'd be kissing a lover of your own instead of sitting here, moping like a fool over your lost love."

Adam can see it: Lucifer is about to start one of his and Michael's famous and very loud arguments. It is going to be nipped in the bud, for Adam won't have it. He needs rest and Lucifer needs to reconsider his priorities. Adam squeezes Michael's hand and makes a pathetic whine. Michael's attention moves immediately from Lucifer and back to him. 

"Michael, would you mind go and ask one of the nurses to come?" Adam manages with amble pause between the words.

Michael reaches for the bell.

"Could you please _go_ ," Adam gasps, straining his capacity for breathing to its limit, "and ask one of the nurses to come see me?"

"Oh." Michael nods. "Yes." He gets up and walks out, without hesitating. Adam knows that there won't be any nurse. He falls back into the pillows, dizzy and gasping for air, more blessed air. 

But Adam is satisfied. Michael is a fast learner. Lucifer, on the other hand... Lucifer, standing right inside the door, gaping like the utter fool he is, is slow and ignorant and blind and all the unpleasant properties Adam can think of, and that in one fabulously unattractive mixture. It might take somewhat longer to teach him. "Here," Adam demands, waving at Lucifer to come closer. Lucifer obeys, reluctantly. Adam has known dogs more suited to learn to follow orders.

"Do you want me to... should I find Michael and tell him to return?" Lucifer asks. "Or what—" 

"Idiot," Adam tells Lucifer, trying to express with his face what his voice cannot, at least not fully when air and words are a limited source. He shakes his head, trying to prevent Lucifer from arguing. Lucifer's eyes narrow angrily. Great communication. They can sit here and glare at each other until they reach an agreement. "You're in love with..." Adam gets out, almost the full sentence before he needs to breathe again. The pause gives him time to watch the words seep into Lucifer's mind, kick at his heart and make him look even gloomier. "With Sam."

"No."

"Liar."

"I never lie!" Lucifer almost shouts, getting up, restless and tense. He turns over a bowl of fruit as he bumps into the table. "I'm not—" he says, shutting his mouth before he starts putting back grapes and apples in the bowl. He ignores Adam as he places the bowl where it was before, arranging the grapes so that everything looks neat.

Adam thinks Lucifer is cutting himself off as not to repeat the lie. He is famous for that, Lucifer, for being honest and direct. It makes him easy to manage; he squirms and becomes angry every time he is forcing himself to deny his feelings for Sam. God, the pair of them... Adam suppresses an urge to roll his eyes at Lucifer.

"How long," Adam begins, waits for another intake of air, "you continue?"

Lucifer snorts. "I won't. He doesn't want me, and I don't want him." Another lie paints its ugly features on Lucifer's handsome face. If it wasn't so sad, it'd be amusing. Adam decides that it is still amusing. 

"Not that. Continue being an idiot?" Adam has to close his eyes; he is going to faint now, he's sure. He lies still, gasping like a fish on dry land, until he has enough air to make his brain work again. 

"I am not an idiot. My faculties are... in perfect order. I will not take it lightly if you imply I need to commit myself to an asylum due to my lack of feelings for Monsieur Winchester."

"Mon... sieur Win... chester?" Adam gasps. Lucifer is in a worse condition than Adam thought. Michael is right; Michael is always right: Lucifer is in love and he is too hurt and too proud to induce a modicum of logic into the grudge he is building against Sam, who in turn is just as hurt and stubborn and proud as Lucifer. 

"We are no longer acquainted in a manner that allows such familiarity," Lucifer snipes, his mouth small and narrow as he shuts it, obviously refusing to comment further on the matter.

Adam feels very tired. He rubs his ribs. The wound itches and hurts and the pressure in his chest is getting really uncomfortable. "Sam in love. With you."

"Clearly not. He was very—"

"Stupid," Adam says again. "Stubborn."

"Yes. Stubborn is the word," Lucifer says, satisfied. "I have never met anyone as stubborn as Sam Winchester."

"You. Stubborn," Adam says and points at Lucifer with an accusing index finger. "Stop." He has to wait, and maybe Lucifer isn't entirely outside pedagogical reach because he waits for Adam to go on. "Be happy," Adam demands, because he has had enough of Lucifer's idiocy. And Sam's. "You love him." Closing his eyes again, this time because his eyes are heavy and the bed is soft and warm, not to mention that he is surrounded by fools which is incredibly tiresome in itself, Adam has only one more thing to say to Lucifer before he falls asleep again: "Tell him."

*

Sam crosses the courtyard. The rain is still falling from a sky dark with winter. The sun is invisible, hiding behind heavy rain curtains. He is wet and cold and tired, and the strong alcohol burns hot in his stomach, making him even more dizzy than before.

The hospital wing is warm and Sam sighs as they step inside, relaxing as his fingers thaws a little.

The nice nurse that took him here speaks with the nurse at the reception desk. "Room 18," she tells Sam when she turns to him again. "He's awake and well. He is receiving guests already, so you may go up. Visiting hours ends at six."

Sam thanks the nurse, sending her a wide smile. Her kindness warms him too; apart from knowing that Adam is safe it is exactly what he needed to make the day a little less glum. With the small package under his arm, Sam hurries up the stairs, eager to see with his own eyes that Adam is alive. He pushes the door to room 18 open, forgetting to knock, too excited to think, or maybe too exhausted.

Then again, the day is perhaps meant to be dark and dank and filled with hopelessness and despair. Because the first thing he sees is not Adam's body, alive or dead. Oh, no. It is much worse.

"Monsieur Winchester." The silken voice that once whispered sweet nothings into Sam's ear manages to deliver those two words laden with distaste.

Sam stops with his hand still on the doorknob. Not exactly what he'd hoped for; meeting Lucifer here. He'd known, of course, that Lucifer would drive out here today, but somehow it had eluded Sam that Lucifer's meeting with Michael would be combined with a visit with Adam. If he hadn't been so damned exhausted, then his brain might have let him come to that very logical and easy conclusion, but no. 

He is an animal, walking into a trap. He cannot get out, the snare tight around his ankle. He is caught. So Sam doesn't say anything. He is not sure he has anything left to say to Lucifer. Nothing meaningful, at least. 

"Cat got your tongue?" Lucifer taunts. The smirk on his mouth doesn't reach his eyes, Sam realizes. They are heavy with sadness as if they reflect the teary-eyed sky outside. "Then again, it looks like the cat got all of you and dragged you back in."

Not caring to reply to the cruel comments, Sam shakes his head and walks past Lucifer, trying to ignore his presence — an impossible feat when his entire being yearns for him. Not even the snide comments erase Sam's need and longing. _Damned_ , he is broken beyond repair. How is it possible to love and hate at the same time?

Only then does Sam realize that Adam is watching them. He looks at them as if he knows something or sees through them. It should be disturbing, but an alert and awake, Adam has to feel reasonably well. Pushing all thoughts about Lucifer and love aside, Sam is at the bedside in three long strides. "How are you feeling? Did it hurt? What did Gabriel say?" Sam's words come out stumbling over each other. "Can I..." Sam wants so badly to embrace his little brother, fragile and pale as he is, and yet so strong. 

"Sam." Adam reaches for him, lips blue-tinged from lack of oxygen. But his smile is wide and beautiful. "Careful," Adam gasps, "chest hurts."

Sam sits for a while with Adam in his arms. Adam's breathing is strained, but he is alive and well. Sam lets out a deep sigh from relief.

"It's going to work," Michael says, maybe needing to explain for Adam when it is so obvious that Adam cannot. "Gabriel was satisfied with the procedure. Despite the discomfort, Adam is in no danger, except that we have to take care of the small wound. Can't risk infections. Nothing to worry about, though. He'll feel a bit better in a few days, when he's adjusted to the collapse."

"So no running around right away?" Sam asks, pulling back, looking at Adam, so damned happy that he is all right. "And here I was hoping for a tennis match in a day or two. A few rounds in the boxing ring, but my hope is crushed now."

Adam grins, but the smile fades. "Idiot. Thin," he adds, poking Sam in the side. "Eating?"

"Yeah, sure,"Sam lies. "Don't worry about me."

Behind him Michael tsks, pushing a bowl of fruit from one side of the bedside table to the other, closer to Sam. Michael is not exactly calling Sam out on the blatant lie, but close. 

"Eat," Michael demands.

Sam stares at the large bowl, filled with an assortment of artistically arranged fruits. "I—" He's about to fall into the temptation of eating his little brother's food, when he realizes that he is still holding on to the package he brought. "I have gifts for you. From Henri and Ez! From Miss Stein and H.D. too." He gets up, placing the small box at the table before he remembers that he is still wearing his drenched coat. He hangs it over a chair and picks up the package again.

Adam makes an excited noise and signals at Sam to hand over the promised gifts. "Give me!" he demands, as excited as a child at Christmas. Sam hands it over, so immersed in Adam's obvious happiness that he barely hears the door to the room being closed shut. He turns. Lucifer has left. Sam lets out a sigh. It's a relief not to have Lucifer in the room. 

Sam directs his attention to Adam once more, watching him unwrap a fine little carving from Henri, a snake wound around the trunk of a tree, made out of the bone handle from a toothbrush. There is a sketch, too, a beautiful study of a dog. From Ezra there is the latest issue of Poetry and a box of Belgian chocolates. Miss Stein has sent a collection of Wallace Stevens's works, and H.D. has chosen Paris' ugliest tie and pinned a note to it that she looks forward to see Adam well enough to wear it. 

"You'll _never_ be well enough to wear _that_ ," Michael says, eying the appalling piece of silk with a face contracted in contempt. "It looks like a dog threw up on it. You should give it to Monsieur Pound."

"True," Adam agrees, breathless because he is trying to laugh. "H.D. nice."

Sam laughs with him. Sure, H.D. did it to be nice. She had known exactly how awful the tie is, and she'd probably counted on them making horror-filled fun of the fashion disgrace. H.D. is a clever woman.

The merriment is a bit too much for Adam. Michael takes Adam's hand, looking at him with worry as Adam pales, coughing and wheezing. Michael is like a hen, gathering her lone chick under her wing. His dedication is similarly selfless; Sam has no doubt that Adam is the center of Michael's universe. 

"Do you need me to fetch Gabriel?" Michael asks. "Do you want us to leave?" He doesn't wait for a reply but rings the bell to the nurses' office, at the same time fluffing the pillows and making sure Adam is warm. "I want a nurse to look at you. No. No arguing," Michael goes on, kissing Adam carefully on the cheek.

It warms Sam that Michael is so dedicated to his little brother. At least one of them is experiencing true love and commitment, because no one with eyes can be convinced that Michael isn't deeply in love with Adam. Sam has to admit that he might have misjudged Michael. Getting to know him, he is still strict and correct, but he is also tender and loving. Maybe Adam and Michael really are a match made in Heaven, because they seem to bring out the best in each other with almost no effort at all, other than a smile or a kiss. 

It's the opposite of how Lucifer and he behave. Lucifer told him once that they were made for each other, and at some point Sam believed him. Mostly Sam thinks that they were made to fight and bicker like children. But Sam recalls the night of pure bliss he had with Lucifer, sleeping in his arms, happy and safe and he knows that he'd give anything to have that again. They might have been made for each other, but somewhere in the make it went wrong. Sam sighs. Sadness is harder to bear in the presence of Adam's happiness.

The door opens. The nurses certainly are quick. 

"What?" Lucifer asks as three pairs of eyes turn to him as if he'd fallen from outer space. He turns and closes the door behind him.

"We expected the nurse," Michael explains. "Adam—"

"I am not she," Lucifer states, quite superfluously as he turns back. "I do not have it in me to nurse anyone." Lucifer is holding a large plate in one hand. Baguettes and cheese are piled high on it. He probably left Gabriel's icebox empty by the look at it. He has a Thermos and napkins under one arm. " I was hungry. Gabriel's kitchen was full," he explains, somewhat unnecessarily. "Although I might have overestimated my appetite. Anyone else want some? There's tea too." Lucifer ignores Sam, but the plate is put on Adam's bedside table, right in front of Sam. 

If Sam hadn't known better, he'd have thought that Lucifer had fetched the food for him. Of course not. Lucifer would rather stab himself with a dull spoon than to do anything out of consideration for him. 

Lucifer spreads butter only on a small piece of bread and cuts a thin slice of Brie, ignoring the company. 

Not that hungry, then? Sam looks at Lucifer, wondering if he fetched the food for him after all. The delicious smell of freshly baked bread teases Sam's nose. His stomach growls, making it impossible to hide how hungry he is.

"Eat," Lucifer says and pushes the plate an inch in Sam's direction before he sits down on one of the uncomfortably hard chairs. "It's a long drive back to Paris. Monsieur Pound tells me the bus takes a detour." 

The sudden care is definitely surprising. Sam wants to ask what caused it, but then again, he probably shouldn't express any curiosity about the dental work of gift-wrapped horses or anything in that direction. In fact, the only thing he can think of in regards to mouths is to fill his own mouth with freshly-made bread and delicious cheese. Since the food is by courtesy of Gabriel, Sam decides that he can eat without really getting any favors from Lucifer. 

Yes, he is lying to himself but he is too hungry to care.

A nurse turns up, answering the call. She is older and strict-looking, not the kind type, not like the one who accompanied Sam earlier. 

She looks once at Adam. "Visiting hours are over. Mr Winchester needs rest. You—" She looks at Michael. "You, Monsieur, may stay if you are quiet. Why Dr Alighieri allows it is beyond me; but I assume that letting guests sleep over is nothing, since Dr Alighieri seems to believe that a patient room is an appropriate setting for a party too." She stares at Sam, who can't stop himself from looking guilty. Lucifer gets a glare as well. "You and you, Messieurs, goodbye! You may call tomorrow."

Even Lucifer looks slightly scared. "I think we need a minute or two to say goodbye to Monsieur Winchester," Lucifer protests. Sam thinks he is amused; the blue eyes are sparkling. 

" _One_ minute," the nurse decides. "Look at the poor child! He's exhausted."

They hurry to say their goodbyes, Sam hugging Adam carefully. "I'll come back as soon as I can," he promises. "Henri and Ezra are visiting on Sunday; I will go with them if I am able."

The nurse coughs impatiently, and Sam doesn't want to try her patience. He is too fond of life to even consider it. With a last smile for Adam he grabs his coat and hat and almost runs out the door to escape the scolding that is as certain as rain in November if he doesn't leave right away.

*

Sam stops outside Adam's room, pulling on his coat. The drenched wool smells of wet dog. Sam makes a face. He is still in the process of buttoning the coat when Lucifer steps out into the corridor. He's holding a folder in one hand and a large bundle in the other.

"A word. Please, Sa-" Lucifer pauses, strangely hesitant. "Please?"

The slip doesn't go unnoticed. It is maybe the only thing that could have stopped Sam, short of Lucifer throwing himself at his feet, and that is not going to happen, not the way Lucifer feels about him now. He stops, refusing to look at Lucifer. 

"Please?"

Sam isn't _that_ fond of awkward situations, and he'd prefer not to chat politely with Lucifer, but an attempt to get away will only worsen their relationship. At least Lucifer isn't angry any longer. Sam has had it with anger. That Lucifer is able to ask nicely gives him hope that they might be able to be in the same room without shouting. "Fine." Sam counts on Michael to intervene if Lucifer starts an argument. They are close enough to Adam's room that any shouting can be heard inside. He looks up. "Yes."

"When did you last eat, apart from that baguette," Lucifer demands to know. "I will not have you die from hunger," he states, again surprisingly protective. 

Perhaps protectiveness fades slower than brief attraction? Seeing what has passed between them, Lucifer has no right to care, and Sam tells him so. "You told me to leave you alone. Please, have the courtesy to do the same for me. I'm not yours to worry about," Sam says, trying not to let his voice get rough and dark with sadness. He liked how Lucifer cared for him. He liked that he _mattered_. 

"Of course," Lucifer says. "I was merely being polite. Our brothers will not be pleased otherwise."

It hangs in the silence between them that Sam has become irrelevant, that any kindness he receives is a result of Michael's and Adam's intervention. Great. Maybe it was a mistake to insist on one last dinner? Maybe it would be easier merely to stop. "The third dinner?" Sam asks without thinking, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. "What about that?"

"Let us get it over with, then. Tomorrow."

"But—" That was not what Sam wanted. Now that he thinks of it, he has no idea what he really wants other than to turn back time to a moment where he hadn't met Lucifer Alighieri. Or better: to the moment when Lucifer hadn't started hating him.

"Dinner jacket or white tie. I assume that won't be a problem?" 

"No." Sam shudders at the thought of the slightly too small tail coat hanging in the back of his wardrobe. He could have sold it, but since it was a gift from his mother when he and Adam left for France, he kept it. The memory is worth more than food or fuel. "No, it isn't."

"Tomorrow, then. Be ready— " Lucifer looks at his watch for no apparent reason. "— for dinner and a night out. Half nine."

"Half nine," Sam confirms, not entirely sure what to think of it. He might not have known what he wanted, but now he has another chance to speak to Lucifer without fighting with him. Still, it might not be a good idea at all. It is to prolong the pain. It would be easier if they stopped seeing each other. 

"Oh," Lucifer says. "Take this. For the trip. Gabriel doesn't want it back." He shoves the bundle into Sam's arms. Before Sam can refuse, Lucifer is already halfway down the stairs.

"What's in the..." Sam starts, giving up, because Lucifer is already gone. Sam sighs, weighing the bundle in one hand before he picks at the tied-together corners of two huge damask napkins to see what they contain. He can't stop himself from smiling when he sees what's inside. So maybe Lucifer still cares about him a little, despite everything that has happened between them?

From the heavy bundle comes the delicious smell of fresh baguettes, oranges and cheese. Lucifer even managed to make room for the Thermos.


	10. Chapter 10

*

Sam throws the pencil into the wall. It lands on the floor, rolls, only to die close to the couch. Sam glares at it, and at the sheet of paper on the desk. The light is fading, so he can't write anyway. He makes an exasperated sound, wondering for a second how the piece of paper came to have _Lucifer_ written all over it instead of an inspired image. Maybe it's that he can't _see_ anything but Lucifer: the anger, the conflict, the look in Lucifer's eyes, his warmth, the safety in his arms... He can't think of anything but Lucifer, either. The tiny tidbit he was served yesterday, a flicker of the tenderness that Lucifer used to show him, has done little to make it stop. It annoys Sam that he can't help feeling so damned grateful for Lucifer's small gesture. It's not the food as such, but the action, although eating fresh baguette with Brie when hungry cannot in any way be overrated. No, it's the sudden tenderness that gets to Sam. He feels like a dog, wagging its tail for a careless, cruel owner. 

"You're an idiot," Sam tells himself, the words echoing in the dark. "Adam is right. You really aren't too clever." He looks at the sheet again, as if looking away would have wiped it clean in the absence of Sam's attention to it. Still has Lucifer written all over it. 

If he could write just one word driven by one thought that didn't revolve around Monsieur Lucifer Alighieri. The sheet of paper is proof that Sam can't do it. There are no well-turned haiku, no heart-stabbing odes. No sweet sonnets, no riveting poetry. The Lucifer-decorated sheet is an elegy to his lost love, and Sam hates it. He'd thought that sadness and poverty were the engines that drove his writing; now he knows it isn't true.

His heart is full of Lucifer, and it is breaking him. He can't function, he can't work, he can't do anything but to think of the love he could have had, but for his own stupid behavior. For a long time, Sam sits in the dark, brooding the way he thought only Adam could brood. Either Sam needs to forget about Lucifer, or get up and fight to get him back — those are the only solutions. Being caught in the no-man's-land between love and hate is exhausting and it ruins any creative thought that Sam has ever had. His poor muse lies suffering, close to death, shot down by Lucifer's callousness and his own idiocy.

The clock strikes eight, and Sam realizes that he has used several hours on not reaching any conclusion at all; his relationship with Lucifer, or rather the current lack of it, is still riddled and ruined. Maybe it was a mistake to force Lucifer to the last dinner? It probably isn't going to solve anything at all. 

Still, Sam gets up, unwraps himself from the blankets he used to keep the cold at bay. He needs to get ready. Their evening out will maybe the last he'll see of Lucifer for a long time. If Sam can avoid him at the sanatorium, that is. And keep away from Le Perdu. 

Yeah, that is going to work well. Damn, it's a mess.

Determined, however, to get the best out of it, Sam dresses, not entirely comfortable with the discovery that the formal suit fits him a bit too nicely. He has lost weight without really noticing it. No food and too much Lucifer, probably. In the dim light from the street, Sam's white wing collar shirt is the only thing he can see clearly in the mirror, that and the white bow tie. The tail coat smells vaguely of naphthalene; Sam prays that it has kept moths from chomping on it; he usually doesn't care that much about his appearance, but tonight it matters. He buttons his vest, and fetches his top hat, barely ready to leave when Claude, Lucifer's valet, calls to inform him that Lucifer is waiting for him in the car.

*

Sam takes a deep breath before he gets into the car next to Lucifer. "Good evening," Sam greets him, unsure whether they are going to be formal with each other or not. "So..."

"We are going to Moulin Rouge," Lucifer announces. " _La Revue Mistinguett._ "

Sam is slightly surprised. He'd thought that Lucifer would take him to Le Perdu, feed him and send him home. Moulin Rouge is definitely another and very different kettle of fish. Moulin Rouge's latest show is all the rage, and more importantly: it's public. Public in the sense that it will be noticed if Lucifer shows up in the company of a single man. "Really?" Sam asks. "I heard that Mistinguett recently insured her legs for 500,000 francs."

"They are very nice legs," Lucifer replies, face blank. "I happen to like long legs."

"Ah," is all Sam can say. He isn't sure whether to feel offended or flattered. It is a question of point of view. A question of whether Lucifer prefers Mistinguett's admittedly well-shaped legs, or...

Or his.

The ride to Moulin Rouge isn't long, it just feels that way. They sit there in the silence, the only noise the hum of the powerful engine, until the chauffeur stops the huge car in front of the entrance. It feels like getting out of prison when Claude opens the door for Sam, leaving it to the chauffeur to take care of Lucifer. 

Where Le Perdu is quirky and queer, a place for the bohéme to gather, Moulin Rouge is _decadence_. It is a place for the very rich to mingle with criminals and actors, prostitutes and accountants and the occasional working man. Sam has been there, of course; some of his friends like the place, although Sam does not. Moulin Rouge is for people such as Lucifer and Gabriel, not for him. People like Sam are a part of the decór, of the entertainment, they are not and will never be members of the very exclusive group of politicians and businessmen who enjoy their evenings at Le Moulin on a regular basis.

Moulin Rouge exists for people like Lucifer. As the chauffeur drives the Benz away, Lucifer is greeted by staff and guests alike, even before they reach the entrance. And just like that, Sam is through the throng of staff and patrons, through the rows of tables, seated at the best table of the house, the most expensive Champagne in his glass. His threadbare coat has disappeared, probably into a wardrobe somewhere. There are three waiters discreetly awaiting Lucifer's orders as Le Moulin's chef explains to Lucifer what he'd recommend for their main course. Yes, Le Moulin seem to exist solely for Lucifer this evening. 

Le Perdu is a gritty place in comparison. Here, Lucifer shines, he is respected, adored, powerful. It is another Lucifer Sam is accompanying; he is familiar, and yet so different. Here, he is elite, a man at the top of the world, not a man who'd ever look down to see Sam.

It is too much.

Sam can hardly breathe. The entire world seem to have turned into a deep ocean, only out to sweep him up, turn him over and tumble him around, finally leaving him, half-drowned, on a desolate shore. Sam isn't easily fazed, but when he sees how other people see Lucifer, he finally understands that Lucifer isn't just any rich businessman. Whether this is intentional, Lucifer showing what he really is, obscenely rich upper class elite, rubbing it in Sam's face without so many words that Sam is very far from playing in his league, or whether it is just coincidental... Sam can't figure out what Lucifer wants with him, other than to get the promised dinner over with. If he wanted it to be abundantly clear that there are worlds between them, he certainly succeeded. 

"Maybe I should have picked a calmer place?" Lucifer says, the first words directed at Sam since they left the car. "But Mistinguett—"

Sam is about to snap. "If she's so interesting to you, perhaps you should have asked _her_ to accompany you?" he says, barely avoiding sneering at Lucifer.

"Not my type. I had the offer once; she invited me. I declined, of course." Lucifer doesn't express any feelings on the matter. He doesn't even look at the stage where said Mistinguett is singing a _chanson_ about _l'amour_. "What would you like to eat? I recommend the _foie gras_ with a strawberry vinaigrette to begin with. Then fillet of steak and thyme roasted potatoes?"

Sam nods. "Please." It's food. It is luxurious, expensive food. This morning he was eating leftover baguette, an orange and some cheese only because Lucifer had given it to him. If he hadn't been fed, he'd been without food for almost a week. The clash between Sam's world and Lucifer's is... remarkable. "You don't need to—"

"I would not continue that sentence, were I you," Lucifer says. "It is exactly what I need. Remember you offered me the best you could afford? Now let me do the same for you." Lucifer nods at the waiter, waiting for Lucifer's confirmation. " _Gourmandise Chocolat_ for dessert, port to go with it. Bordeaux for the steak. A 1902 Lafite Rothschild." Lucifer sends the waiter away coldly with the annoyed wave of a hand, a flash of the cruel, hard man he is.

Sam can't keep his mouth shut. Maybe it's the emotional ups and downs of the last week that get to him. "And the best... that is where you leave me and won't talk to me? Because I'd like to sort out that misunderstanding, then. I don't find it in any way exciting to be abandoned. I've felt awful ever since, and if you're going for an encore, let's get it over with right away: I get up and leave, and you save your money, feeding the undeserving."

"Excuse me. _You_ weren't the one who woke up alone, after spending the night in your lover's arms, Sam. I waited for you for hours, and you..." Lucifer rubs his face with a hand, sliding his fingers through his hair, messing it up entirely. "No. Let's not. We'll enjoy dinner and the show, and that's it." Lucifer pours more Champagne in Sam's glass, too fast, and the fine Perrier-Jouët sloshes over the rim. With the bottle still in hand, Lucifer closes his eyes and sighs, inaudible as the orchestra starts playing a popular tune.

Sam leans back in the chair. He tries to sit still, but the entire situation is so unpleasant and disconcerting that he fills with nervous energy that has nowhere to go. A waiter discreetly removes his class and the tablecloth, while another wipes off the table and a third replaces the tablecloth and the glass, hurrying, maybe trying not to annoy Lucifer any further. "I'm not your lover."

The music dies down and somebody starts a routine on stage, _Satin_ , or something in that direction, singing a deep-felt love song to a pale young man, who looks more like a sensitive writer than Sam ever did. It should be moving, but Sam can't concentrate on listening to the song. The entire reason for talking Lucifer into having a third dinner was so that Sam could explain. He can't sit here, doing nothing.

Neither can Lucifer. He starts at the exact same moment as Sam. " _Chéri_ —"

"Lucif—" It stuns Sam into silence that Lucifer uses _that_ term, as if there is still something between them. "Please, could we—"

"Let's start with... not fighting, yes? I like you, but I don't like the way you treat me. So let's not fight." Lucifer's smile is gentle, the anger gone.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "I didn't mean to. It was... panic. Not... not you."

Lucifer takes a sip of the Champagne, watching Sam with a strange expression, introspective, yet curious. "Explain it to me, then."

Finally! Sam forgets immediately that he is supposed to be angry with Lucifer, not that he has done a very good job at it in the first place. It's the breakthrough he's fought for, and the relief is so deep and immense that Sam can't speak right away. He fidgets, nervous, knowing that he is only getting one chance, and no more. He can't waste it, he can't let it slip through his fingers. Pressing his lips together, trying to find out what he's going to say, the feelings that he has for Lucifer, kept at bay by anger and confusion, are rushing back, flooding him with a warmth and longing, almost impossible to bear. 

"Ever since I was a child," Sam begins, "my brothers and me... good thing never happened. My father... he drank. He beat us when he had had too much. Then I found out that I... I liked men and not women. Things got from bad to worse. Father tried to beat it out of me, and of Adam. Dean tried to protect us, so he got beaten up too. Father broke his arm once. It didn't work. Father threatened to hand us over to the police. He'd have done it, you know. Sodomy is a felony, so we decided to escape. There was nowhere we could be safe, not unless we renounced our ways. Dean and my mother helped us. We came here, and things got better, just long enough for us to think that our lives really had improved. Then Adam fell ill."

Lucifer is listening. He has put on a mask of casual interest, but he is more attentive than he pretends to be. The eyes are alive, and they never leave Sam's.

"So what I learned is that nothing good ever happens to us, not unless it is the silence before the storm, the moment when life turns around and kicks us again. I had somehow stopped believing that my life would ever be anything but this constant fight from keeping myself and Adam from drowning. So when you... I couldn't believe that something good was happening to me."

Lucifer nods. "Life hasn't been kind to you."

It's not much of an admission, not much encouragement, but it's enough for Sam to continue. "Then you came along, arrogant and rude with your superior attitude and your contempt for everybody." Sam waits, unsure what to say. "And I hated you."

Lucifer's expression is no longer calm; instead his face becomes a study in conflicting emotions. "You—"

"Please, let me finish." Sam has to speak his mind, confess what's in his heart. If he stops now, he's not sure he'll be able to go on. 

"Fine." Lucifer's mouth is narrow and tense.

"Then I... then I fell in love with you." It slips out of Sam's heart so easily, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"You? Oh." Lucifer, too, looks like his world has been upturned. "Oh." His hand twitches on the table. 

"Lucifer... you... " They really aren't very good at communicating. Lucifer loses his sharp honesty, and Sam's way with words turns either into detours or dead ends. Sam looks away, stunned by his own frank confession.

Quiet is better. Lucifer doesn't say anything, he merely reaches across, putting his hand over Sam's, squeezing it gently, and he doesn't let go. Sam doesn't dare look up.

Sam holds his breath. If he refuses to breathe, maybe the world will stay like this; with hope and light in it. Lucifer's hand trembles, and Sam thinks that something is wrong, because Lucifer cannot be... nervous? Sam frowns slightly, then letting out the breath he's been holding on to for a little too long. He looks up. Lucifer is watching him, apprehensive.

"I'm in love with you," Sam says, not caring anymore. The emotion is too big to keep on a leash. "I'm... lost."

Lucifer's smile is like rain on parched land. Sam soaks it up and feels it blossom inside him.

"And I with you. My love for you didn't disappear; it merely turned into pain."

"Merely?" Sam turns his hand, letting Lucifer's fingers slide between his own, sighing again as he hears the words he'd have killed to hear again. "If it was that easy to change back and forth."

"It isn't. Looking at you, Sam, I know you know it isn't easy."

Of course it's not easy. If it was, Sam would believe that he had ended up in an alternate reality. Nothing about his life has ever been easy. Yet it is strangely easy to sit with Lucifer's hand in his, hope filling his heart with light. Sam hardly dare to believe, but Lucifer is still in love with him. They may be able to move forward now, unless Lucifer insists on being stubborn. It's foolish and silly, staying apart, but Sam thinks that they better learn how to be together, and fast, because being apart is hell. First, he needs to explain in detail to Lucifer why he ran away. If only he can make Lucifer understand, maybe the rest will be easier, the forgiveness and the apologies and — Sam hopes it will come to that — being a couple. 

Before he can do anything but stare at Lucifer, besotted, they are interrupted by waiters, attempting to serve their appetizer. Lucifer is first to remove his hand, and Sam tries not to think about the significance of it. They are in public, and even though their love is not forbidden, neither in France, and definitely not at Le Moulin, a prolonged and obviously intimate touch might be enough to elicit complaints, even in an unconventional place like this, the heart of _haute bohème_. Being homosexual is not against the law, but indecent behavior is. Not even Lucifer's status can protect him against the occasional bigot, although people who know him would think twice before issuing such a challenge. 

It takes a minute that feels like hours before the plates with a salad and thin slices of foie gras are placed in front of them. The waiters bow, finally, and leave them in peace. Sam carefully cuts off a corner of the foie gras, spearing a little lettuce and cucumber on the fork together with it. The taste distracts him; it's fat and sweet and fresh, all at the same time. When he looks up from the plate, Lucifer is looking at him. 

"Please, continue explaining to me how you are in love with me," Lucifer invites. "I like that conversation better than the last one we had, and much, much better than the one before." Lucifer's eyes crinkle at the corners, as if there is another of those soft smiles hidden somewhere in them. "You were trying to make me understand how being in love made you lose sense and run away?"

Now that Lucifer says it aloud, it seems even more stupid than when Sam tried to justify it to himself. Sam blushes. He could definitely have handled it better, like an adult, for example. Sam eats another piece of foie gras and decides that he better start now, acting like a grown man, not running away from what he feels.

"All right. Love. That... You see," Sam begins, pausing to get it right. "Nothing was like I thought it'd be, falling in love. It scared me. When I ran away from you, I was scared. I don't know what's wrong with me, but love is the most scary feeling in the universe. Henri and Ez told me I was being an ass."

Lucifer nods, as if he understands, yet he smiles, a little smug. "Monsieur Gaudier was always level-headed. And I value Monsieur Pound's opinion. At least on this."

"Oh, thank you. Why don't you just tell me that you think I'm an ass, too?"

"I think you're an ass."

"You're going to leave it at that? I'm an ass. Fine." Sam pouts, not at all adult and grown up. He doesn't mean to, but he wants badly to find out if they are moving forward or backwards or at all, and Lucifer is just teasing him instead of telling him more about being in love. Sam goes from pouting to pathetic.

"You're an adorable ass." Lucifer sighs and the mood turns serious. He plays with his fork, taking some time before he goes on. "I'm scared too. I've never been in love, Sam. The emotion... I'd do anything for you. I'd die for you. I don't know to handle it. I don't know if I am able to. Hell, I don't even know whether I _want_ to."

Hope shatters. "So you don't know whether we..." Sam bites his lip, not knowing what to say. "Are we..."

"Not yet. I want you, but I want _all_ of you. If I cannot have all of you, I'm not sure I'd ever want to... to have your love in limited measures... I can't. So I'll think about it. You need to be sure that you are willing to commit." Lucifer nods, then drifts, like his thoughts are pulling him away from Sam, into a faraway place. Not even the appearance of Mistinguett on the stage makes Lucifer react. The audience is applauding wildly, but Lucifer is not _there_.

"Lucifer?"

"I didn't say how long." Lucifer is back again, alert and attentive, yet there is an air of distance that wasn't there before.

"You didn't, no."

"Just let me... Worlds upturned are not put back in their place in a second, Sammy. Your world is not the only one that has been turned around and on it's head. I need time to figure out what it means."

"And what _does_ it mean?" Sam asks. "Other than I'll have to wait for you to come to a decision."

"It means that you are not the only one who has emotions at stake here. If I am going to risk my heart again, it is — and I stress that both you and I have to think before we decide — it is either a firm yes or a similarly firm no from you. Any answer that is not definite is not an answer I wish to hear. So I guess it means that we're enjoying the evening together, then we'll take our time to think about what has happened. We both need to walk into this — or out of it — with open eyes. I have no intentions of playing with your feelings. Just as I want a definite reply from you, my answer will be just as clear. And if your answer is a no, I don't wish to see you again."

"You're in love, and yet..." Sam tries to understand Lucifer's logic. Sam wonders whether Lucifer, too, is deadly afraid to love, afraid to hope, just like he had been. Sam can see no other reason for the delay: their feelings, for once, are perfectly aligned. 

Lucifer reaches across the table, taking Sam's hand. "We _both_ need to be sure this time. Because I want to have a life with you, Sam. Not an affair, not a few dinners — a life. As in _until death do us part_. I want forever with you, and you need to think it through, all the way, if that is a future that you'd like as well. If I have you, I will never let you go. I think that is clear enough. Do you understand now why I want you to be absolutely certain that you are willing to give me what I need?" 

Sam's heart beats wildly and he clings to Lucifer, dizzy from lack of air. If he breathes, maybe he'll wake up from this wonderful dream, Lucifer declaring himself so honestly. Oh, Sam wants to say yes, but... maybe Lucifer is right. They should probably use a little time to consider the consequences now that they are both thinking clearly, before they decide where their relationship goes. Sam knows already that there are only two ways: Heaven or Hell. 

"I think I understand." Sam acknowledges Lucifer's conditions with a gracious nod.

Lucifer raises Sam's hands to his lips, kissing it slowly, almost sensually, eyes trained on Sam's face. It is so intimate, so clear to everyone who might be watching them, that Lucifer's desire is burning hot, his love almost overwhelming in its deep intimacy.

Sam sighs, shivering under the warm touch. He is about to say something when Lucifer looks away, staring at something behind Sam, Lucifer's eyes changing, thunderstorm fast, from hot to cold. Sam looks over his shoulder.

"Isn't that disgusting," Wyndham Lewis sneers. "Homosexuals and sodomites everywhere we go. I wish the laws here made sense, allowing such foul, disgusting behavior is simply appalling. In my country you'd have been in jail by now, and for good reason."

Lucifer let go of Sam's hand. He folds his napkin carefully and puts it next to the plate. Just as carefully Lucifer gets up and pushes the chair back under the table; at no point does he stop staring at Lewis with a coldness that'd make a glacier seem warm and welcoming. 

"If you are so enamored with England and English law, Lewis, I'd be happy to escort you to the ferry so you can return to London. If they'll have you. Most Englishmen are decent people, so I doubt it. But I'd do anything to get rid of your sour face and your disgusting and hateful opinions." Coming from Lucifer who is known to despise humanity, just by principle, the words are making an impact.

"As if I'd ever allow you—" Lewis shuts his mouth, realizing that the only place Lucifer will take him is to a desolate place where he can dispose of his dead body. At least Lucifer looks like someone who'd happily murder Lewis in cold blood. Stone cold blood.

"No, of course you wouldn't." Lucifer smiles, soft and very, very scary, letting Lewis see more than a hint of the predator he is. He takes a few steps in Lewis's direction, close enough to loom over him. "Let me give you a warning, and I give it only because you, for a reason that eludes me, is a friend of Mr Pound's, otherwise I wouldn't have cared: If you ever again try to speak to me, or to my... to Mr Winchester, I will make sure your life, what little will be left of it in that case, will be extraordinarily unpleasant. You do not want to challenge me, Lewis; clearly you have not understood the power I hold in this country. _My_ country.

Lewis pales. "As if anyone of significance would have connections to known sodomite," he hisses. "And if decent people find out that you have with you that... that..." Lewis points at Sam. "That lewd _putain_ , that whore, nobody will have anything to—"

Lucifer's fist lands right in Lewis's angry face, sending him flying back against the next table, Lewis narrowly avoiding to turn it over as he hangs on to another patron's chair, blood gushing from his nose. Lucifer's face is contracted in rage, in murderous intent so clear that Sam has never seen anything like it. Sam, somehow used to Lewis' biased opinions, is rendered speechless, numb, by the poisonous attack, but Lucifer's swift punishment and the flaring fury kicks him into action; he is up and at Lucifer's side in a second, trying to prevent serious bloodshed. For Lucifer's sake. Sam steps between Lucifer and the fallen Lewis, preventing Lucifer from getting to the target of his wrath.

"Don't. Don't, Lucifer," Sam begs. "It'll only lead to a scandal." Not that Sam wouldn't like to punch Lewis, too, but a public fight might cause trouble for Lucifer, and Sam doesn't want that. And Lucifer has made his opinion very clear already. His fist spoke in no uncertain terms. 

Waiters come running, the maître d'hôtel looking scandalized. He most certainly does not approve of their behavior. Lucifer, on the other hand, is entirely unfazed. A waiter helps Lewis up, shoving a napkin at him. Lewis is outraged, about to go off again when the maître d'hôtel intervenes, silencing him with a wave, making it clear that he has to wait his turn. 

The maître d'hôtel bows to Lucifer, then to Sam. "Messieurs, allow me to express my deepest apology for the inconvenience. Allow me to make sure it will not happen again." He turns to one of the waiters. "Please, help Monsieur Lewis's... acquaintances to a table elsewhere," the maître d' demands. "And you," he tells another waiter, "help Monsieur outside. I am sure Monsieur Lewis will benefit from taking a little fresh air." It is a convoluted way to say that Monsieur Lewis is being escorted out of Moulin Rouge, never to return, although it is phrased differently.

"Thank you," Lucifer says, not apologizing for anything. It is clear that he is not in the wrong, at least in his own opinion. Sam agrees, though. Anything that happened to Lewis was well-deserved. Lucifer makes a slight bow to the gentleman and his companion at the next table. "Please, order anything you like for you and your lovely companion; the maître will direct your check to me. Mr Lewis should have known better than to inconvenience you when he fell."

Sam simply stares at Lucifer. He is _incredible_. So incredible that Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Maybe he should just sit down and consider how much dignity he has left after having Lucifer coming to his defence, a white knight, rescuing his maiden in distress. Then again, there is already very little dignity left. Being called a whore in public usually does that to people for some reason; and somewhat unfairly; prostitutes are a hard-working lot and most of them decent people.

Sam gives up, dignity and all. He sits down without waiting for a waiter to help him with the chair. He grabs a glass and swallows the content, sneezing as the Champagne bubbles get the better of him. Yeah, the evening sure is surreal.

It turns even more surreal when Lucifer returns to their table, leaning in to kiss Sam on the cheek for everyone to see, leaving no doubt that their 'friendship' is _very_ intimate. 

"I'll make sure Lewis is asked to leave the country tomorrow," Lucifer says. "I'd tolerate him for Mr Pound's sake, and at a distance, but he overstayed his welcome this evening, not just here and in my establishment, but in France."

What Sam hears is _are you all right? I'll kill for you_. He nods. "Lewis is a vengeful bastard. Can you really have him deported? Sure won't miss him; I can get Ez to offend me more elaborately if I was enamored with name-calling. Ez is more inventive and it's really the pot calling the kettle black if he tries to go on about how disgusting it is with men being together. It could actually be entertaining, listening to him getting out of that one. Not to speak of what Henri would do to him for retaliation."

Lucifer huffs, a mix between a snort and a laughter. "I don't doubt that. But let us not have the fool destroy our evening. Let's enjoy the food and the show; we should not let Lewis have the pleasure of ruining a perfectly good dinner."

Sam grabs the bottle of Champagne and pours himself a glass, disregarding any politeness or table manners. He downs it, all of it, feeling a little calmer. "You are right, of course." Sam leans closer. "Was it wise? That kiss?"

"Sam, this establishment had Colette and Duchesse Missy de Morny kissing each other on stage at the _Rêve d'Égypte_ show. "Look around. If Lewis hates homosexuals so much, he sure came to the wrong place if he wanted to avoid us."

Sam doesn't have to; he, like everybody else in Paris, knows that the Bohéme do what they want in places like this, even in this upscale restaurant. Especially in this place, Sam knows, because the rich and the creative never adhered to the same rules as polite society. For the most part, the police leave them alone. "As I recall it, the show was canceled, and the scandal prevented Mm Colette and the duchess from living together openly," Sam argues. "But... I know... we... it is not that unusual now." It isn't. From where he sits, he can see at least two couples who are known to live together without attracting any kind of unwanted attention. "There will always be men like Lewis," he adds, knowing that it is something they have to consider if their relationship develops. "It shouldn't be hidden. Love should never have to hide."

"I know, Sam. Keeping our love a secret doesn't force people to understand that there is little difference between the love we feel, and the kind of love they have for their lovers. Times have changed. It might cause an uproar, still, having actors kiss on stage. But nobody would care about them being together, though, not if they had kept it a little quiet."

Maybe there is a promise in that, or hope. Sam can't decide. Instead of thinking too deeply about what the future might hold, and whether he'll have secrets so hide at all, Sam reacquaints himself with the foie gras, eating every bit of the delicious dish. It is vastly more manageable than dealing with Lewis and everything that goes with his hatred towards them.

*

Sam is actually able to enjoy, much to his own surprise. If it is the last time he is going to see Lucifer, he wants it to matter. Sam doesn't want to think about what happens if Lucifer says no, nor does he want to think about Lewis. He'd much prefer just to eat, drink and be merry, art and assholes and all conflict be damned. They are served their main course, and Sam's mouth waters. The food is good enough to be distracting.

On stage the show goes on as well; Mistinguett's second appearance as well as her naked, well-shaped legs seem to elude Lucifer's attention entirely. Instead Lucifer attacks the raw steak the waiters brought him with some appetite. No wonder; the meat is tender and the thyme-and-butter-roasted potatoes are crisp and fat and cooked to perfection. Sam accepts a second helping and another glass of red wine that tastes wonderfully of late summer and spices.

Lucifer is intensely aware of Sam's mood, almost too aware; the tiniest frown or sign of displeasure — Sam doesn't think he looks displeased, but he might have developed a minor streak of jealousy, courtesy of Mademoiselle Long Legs, that might show when Sam looks at the woman — causes immediate concern from Lucifer. 

"Anything I can get you?" Lucifer asks. "Is the steak to your liking?"

Looking at his close to empty plate, Sam raises an eyebrow. "It's either that, or I like to torture myself by eating food I don't like — not that I usually have the luxury of refusing anything edible," Sam says, sounding bitter. It elicits a discontent sound from Lucifer.

"If you'd at least let me do for you what I did for Adam: set up a fund so that your poetry gets published and you, in return, get a decent revenue in exchange for your published works." Lucifer puts down his knife and fork, wiping his mouth with the pristine damask napkin. "It's not charity; it isn't for Adam, either. Sure, Michael will happily provide everything Adam will ever need, but it's not what Adam wants. He wants his own money; he is not a kept man. He's working hard, you know he does. Writing _is_ hard work. I know it, I tried."

That's surprising. Not so much the arrangement that Lucifer has with Adam, Sam knows all about that, but that Lucifer was a writer, too. "You wrote poetry?"

"I am not going to show it to you." It is said with such conviction that Sam decides never to ask. If Lucifer wants him to see his attempts at artistic endeavor, _he_ can ask. "I am not without talent, my family has a number of great artists, but I am vastly better at managing businesses and earning money than I can ever use than I am at writing," Lucifer confesses, which again makes some leeway for the writing talent: if Lucifer is but half as talented a writer as he is a businessman, he is up there with the rest of them. Maybe Sam should ask to see Lucifer's poetry anyway?

"You have authors in... _oh_... you mean... really?" Sam had wondered about the Italian-sounding surname but hadn't made the connection, mostly because it seemed so far fetched that Lucifer should be related to the author who wrote _Divina Comedia_. "Really?"

"My great-great, I don't know how many greats, great grandfather, yes. You know that Dante, too, fell in love at first sight, at the mature age of nine?"

"Yes, I..." Sam nods, trying to comprehend the information that Lucifer so readily provides. He can't decide whether it is more surprising that Lucifer actually is a relative of one of the world's greatest poets, or that Lucifer — like Dante, falling in love with Beatrice Portinari — might have fallen for Sam the instant he met him. "It sure runs in the family, then? War, politics, passion and loyalty?"

"And lifelong love. I don't think we Alighieris stop loving when we have first started. We might rage and fight and wage war because of it, but I don't think we have it in us to stop loving." Lucifer is quiet for a while. "Before you, I always laughed at the thought of foolish little Dante. I didn't understand _l'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle_ — the love that moves the sun and other stars. It's the last line of _Paradiso_. Dante was talking about God, but I... I worship at a different altar, my love is aimed at someone more... earthly. Tangible."

Lucifer's passion is warm, all-encompassing; ocean-deep and sky-high. Sam wants to return those feelings; wants to let his feelings for Lucifer grow and turn into this kind of full-fledged, beautiful love that is too big for ordinary words. He wants Lucifer's love because it is the kind of love that great poetry and grand emotions are made of. Wanting to give Lucifer the same kind of love in return, a sacred, eternal love, Sam _needs_ to convince Lucifer that their love is worth all the trouble they have gone through, and the troubles they will go through in the future, for a love such as theirs does not come cheap. Nothing that precious does. Sam has no doubt left, no reluctance. His budding love is pure and eager; he wants Lucifer, he _needs_ him, and there is nothing Sam won't do to make it so. If this night is all Sam has to convince Lucifer that their love is meant to be, Sam wants every second to be perfect.

He is about to open his mouth and declare his intent to Lucifer, when the maître d'hôtel approaches their table, shattering the beautiful moment into little pieces. The maître's movements are nervous, as if something has spooked him, and he is slightly out of breath when he comes closer at Lucifer's nod.

Lucifer knows already that something is wrong. Apparently the maître d'hôtel knows not to disturb Lucifer unless it is for a good reason. "What is it, Maître?"

"The police. They are outside. One of the scullery boys heard them as he went to take out the garbage. They are raiding us. If I may say so, Monsieur, it is Monsieur Lewis who has... the kitchen boy saw him with the captain. The boy was clever enough to hide, spying on them as they were talking about the raid. Someone, that would be Monsieur Lewis, has reported gross indecency, and your name and Monsieur Winchester's were mentioned. I have taken the liberty to alert your valet. I assume he'll have your car ready for you. Good luck, Messieurs."

Sam's breath hitches. He cannot afford to be picked up and arrested. _They_ cannot. Lucifer has a reputation to uphold. Sam has none, but he cannot pay a fine, and he certainly doesn't want to draw attention to himself. He'll be on a boat back to America before he knows it if the police takes Lewis's accusations seriously. "What are we going to do?" Sam asks Lucifer, not really waiting for a reply. He gets up, battle ready and looking for a way out before Lucifer has said as much as a word. Around them waiters are alerting guests who might be at risk, discreetly as not to cause panic. Not everyone at Moulin Rouge is interested in a close encounter with the police for various reasons, some of them more nefarious than having kissed the wrong person.

The maître d' helps Sam with the chair, fidgeting as he looks at the closest of the grand doors. "Hurry, Messieurs."

"Is there a way out into the backyard?" Sam asks calmly, smoothing his tailcoat and getting his gloves as if he is merely getting up to take a little fresh air after dinner. His heart beats wildly, and he wipes his sweaty hands in a napkin. "Somewhere the police cannot get to without being let in?" Le Moulin Rouge takes up an entire block, and the police cannot cover the entire area. It's not the first time that Sam has been on the run. He knows what to do and where to run. How to avoid the police.

Before the maître d' replies, there is a commotion at the entrance; the police is already inside. He nods, then runs off, maybe to warn other patrons. 

"Damn." Lucifer takes Sam's hand. "I know a way out. Come on!"

They walk quickly along the stage, patrons and artists running the other way, in the direction of the doors that lead to the foyer. Lucifer, on the contrary, leads them towards a dark corner, no exit visible until they are right in front of it. The door is painted in the same colors as the walls, almost invisible in the dark, except for a brass doorknob. Sam turns around as screams and shouts rise in volume, only to see the police, at least twenty gendarmes, burst through the doors, determined, as if they know exactly whom to look for. It leaves him frozen for a second. It has been a long time since he was last hunted like this.

"It's locked. Hell!" Lucifer yanks at the doorknob, frustrated. 

Sam shakes off his anxiety, forcing himself back into action. He digs into his pocket, grabbing his keys. They are held together with a piece of wire. "Move," he commands, picking the lock in seconds. "Clear." He steps aside, letting Lucifer go first; he knows where they are heading.

"Impressive. And useful," Lucifer comments, breathless as he pushes the door open. "Quick." They step inside, Lucifer locking the door behind them. He pulls Sam with him down a dark corridor, a single, naked light bulb casting a pale light over the gritty, paint-peeling backside of Moulin Rouge's outwards luxury. "I'm going to murder Lewis when I see him again," Lucifer whispers, his voice cold as ice. 

Sam doesn't think he is meant to hear it because there is a tone to the words that makes Sam believe that Lucifer means it. Lucifer tries one door that won't open, then the next. The room is dimly lit, some office. It has old desks and a few chairs along the walls. The room smells vaguely of dust and cigars. Sam gets in the moment the door to the corridor is kicked open with a loud creaking sound. Lucifer fumbles for a key at the backside of the door. Luckily there is one. Sam looks around and decides that the closest desk needs to be moved. He pushes it up against the door, groaning from the exercise. It's damned heavy, and it'll give them a little time. 

"What do we do now? Lewis won't budge before he has seen us taken by the dogs he set on us," Sam says. "He's such a vindictive little man, and he is unfortunately very good at it." Sam is truly distraught. This is exactly why he left Kansas for France; not that his love for men — man, one man in particular — is a crime here, but not all _gendarmes_ are interested in the accuracy of the report when they arrest people who might have committed gross indecency in public. The accusation, especially when two men are involved, is enough, and usually the police simply grab who they can and care about apologizing later. "If they deport me... Adam... you... Lewis knew what he was doing. God, Lucifer... I—" It occurs to Sam that he is about to lose everything. "What am I gonna do?"Sam is on the verge of panic. 

Lucifer isn't panicking. At all. Calmly he grabs Sam's shoulder, squeezing it. It is strangely calming and Sam's heartbeat slows as he takes a few deep breaths. 

"The window," Lucifer instructs. "There is a narrow alley behind the theater; it leads to _Rue Cauchois_. Turn right, then go back to the main entrance at _Boulevard Clichy_. Keep to the opposite side, along the trees. Nobody will notice you if you keep to the shadows. Claude is waiting there with the car, right across the street; it's where the chauffeur usually parks, he knows that I'll expect him to be there. The police won't realize you are gone; I'll hold them off for some time. Lewis surely is in here, waiting to enjoy his revenge, and he'll focus on me first."

"I can't just—" Sam doesn't want Lucifer to stay, taking the brunt of Lewis's revenge. "But shouldn't you—" There are gendarmes in the corridor now, shouting and knocking, doors slamming, fast footsteps and loud swearing. 

Lucifer will hear none of it. "Go, Sam! I've got this. I've got _you_. Get the car, have Claude drive you to my house, leave my chauffeur here to pick up my coat and deliver it to the station; he can get a taxi. Bonheur knows what to do, just do what he tells you. Wait at the palais; my solicitor, Monsieur Balthazar, will get me out faster than I could make the chief of police get out of bed to come to my rescue. The Minister of Justice is a good friend, so don't worry about me."

Sam nods, breathless. The commotion in the corridor is even louder. Someone is banging on the door. "I shouldn't leave you," he says. It might be misplaced loyalty, but Sam doesn't want to let Lucifer deal with the police alone. They have done nothing wrong, but Lewis surely will make it sound like it. Sam wants to stay, even though it means that he'll be arrested too. It's loyalty versus practicality, and it's a decision that Sam doesn't like. At all.

"Sam, please. I have political power that you don't, I have solicitors who can rip my enemies apart with their wit; Lewis should have thought twice before he tried to outsmart me; he is biting over vastly more than he can chew. I swear I won't let you come to any harm. I'll nip this in the bud; just get me Balthazar, and I'll be able to control it. So go."

"But—"

" _Go!_ " Lucifer takes a step forward, hesitates a second, before he grabs Sam by the lapels and kisses him, hard and possessive, only a few seconds of passionate, fiery desire that makes Sam gasp, surprised, by the sudden kiss. "Now, sweetheart, before it's too late. It might take me a few days to get _you_ out if they get you. And I won't have my lover incarcerated in prison."

"What—" Sam gasps, reaching for Lucifer again, by instinct, even though he should be running for cover. His brain is not working, because there is nothing and no one but Lucifer left in the known universe. Sam's heart beats so fast, but not for the fear of what will happen. This time it is happiness, sheer happiness. "Your lover... why—" 

Lucifer looks at him with a soft smile, gently peeling Sam's hands off his tailcoat. He holds Sam's hands for a second before he let go. "Because you are _mine_ to protect, my darling, and I love you. Go before they break the door down. Tell Balthazar to let you come with him to the arrest. I won't be without you for longer than absolutely necessary." 

Another soft kiss is pressed to Sam's mouth before he is pushed towards the window. 

Gendarmes splinter the door when Sam closes the window behind him, disappearing into the shadows of the dark alley, Lucifer's kisses still burning on his lips. Sam's heart is aflame with hope and with the kind of love that moves suns and moons and stars and the entire universe.


	11. Chapter 11

Lucifer's solicitors are not men to be trifled with, Sam knows that even before he has known them for a minute. 

"Claude, get me a glass of Cognac - Logis d'Angeac - I know Lucifer hides it somewhere," Monsieur Balthazar demands, not caring to sit down. He paces the room, filled with a restless energy that makes Sam halfway annoyed, halfway relieved. Monsieur Balthazar is the type of man who gets things done, and fast. "Get Monsieur Winchester a glass as well, better soothe his nerves."

"Get me the Minister of Justice on the telephone," Monsieur Crowley orders, handing Bonheur a note with a number written on it. "And don't take no for an answer; his valet is a right arse. Tell him to tell the Minister that Fergus is calling. That'll get him out of bed. I want him to call the directeur général."

With Bonheur and Claude put to work, Monsieur Crowley leans back in the chair he's sitting in. Monsieur Balthazar stops his pacing and decides to perch on the armrest. 

"So you're Lucifer's latest folly?" Monsieur Crowley asks Sam. "I admit his taste in men is as exquisite as it is in Cognac."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I'm not a _folly_."

"Perhaps not. But you certainly made Lucifer act like a fool."

"I am not responsible for Lucifer's actions," Sam says coldly. "Lucifer wants what he wants, and he told me in no uncertain terms that what he want is me. And if you know him at all, you also know that he doesn't let anyone control him."

"Except you. I think you underestimate the power you hold. Monsieur Winchester, Lucifer worships the ground you walk upon, and as his lawyer, I advise against that kind of commitment."

"Do you? Interesting. And be nice," Monsieur Balthazar purrs. "Monsieur might think that you disapprove of Lucifer's... bent persuasion."

Monsieur Crowley laughs, his voice dark and soft. He looks up at Monsieur Balthazar. "I that so, sweetheart? That would be _very_ wrong of me."

"And what makes you think that _I'd_ disapprove of you, doing something wrong?" Monsieur Balthazar purrs. "You are so much fun when you're doing bad things."

Bonheur comes back, interrupting whatever it is the two lawyers are doing. "The Minister will be—" Bonheur hesitates. "He'll be less than pleased to speak with you, but he is willing nevertheless. For Monsieur Alighieri's sake."

"Ah, your immense charm has once again worked wonders. Oh, Crowley," Monsieur Balthazar sighs, a pleased smirk gracing his lips. "This is why I love you so much." He looks at Monsieur Crowley as he leaves to take the call, quiet for a while.

Finally Monsieur Balthazar directs his attention to Sam. "Did you call Michael? I doubt he'll leave your ill brother for this little incident; Michael should be informed nevertheless.

"I did. Right after Bonheur called you, Monsieur. He offered to come, but I told him that you and Monsieur Crowley were taking care of... everything." Of course Michael would have come; despite their differences and frequent bickering, Michael and Lucifer love each other. 

"Good, good." 

They are disturbed by Claude who brings the Cognac that Monsieur Balthazar asked for, pouring for both of them. Sam turns the glass in his hands, glad to have something to do. He breathes in, coffee and cinnamon, notes of leather and prunes teasing his nose, before he takes a small sip of the strong wine. Monsieur Balthazar sure knows to demand the best, and Lucifer sure knows how to provide it. 

"So," Monsieur Balthazar says, dragging out the word, "Lucifer is in love. Didn't think I'd ever see that happen. He is deadly serious about you, you know."

Sam is not sure what to say. "You don't approve of... us?"

Monsieur Balthazar laughs. Loudly. "Understandably you are worried about your man. But I certainly hope you are more perceptive when you are not distressed."

Sam frowns for moment, trying to find out what he missed. "Oh! You and..." Slightly embarrassed by his own cluelessness, Sam takes another drink of the Cognac. "I see. Apologies."

"We're not that uncommon, Monsieur Winchester. And men such as us, and your Lucifer... We stand together when necessary. Don't you worry, we'll have Lucifer out, and all charges and other unpleasantnesses gone before morning. We usually deal with bigger fish than a few zealous policemen and their pet gendarmes who take it upon themselves to go above the law. Lucifer has power too; he is the rising star of the Parti Républicain Démocratique, and it will not be taken lightly that he is accused of something he did not do. Lucifer might be hard and cruel, but he is an honorable man, honest; those in power know that. Because of it, he has many supporters in the government, people who know that he prefers men to women. To honest men, such preferences don't matter. We French understand the significance of love, you see. Many of us do not hold such outdated opinions as your Mr Lewis."

"He is not my Mr Lewis," Sam growls. "England can have him back. After I have punched him."

"A most commendable notion, but if you let me handle it, I assure you the outcome will be less straining, and vastly more satisfying." Monsieur Balthazar gets up, empties his glass, and rings for Claude. "Come on, Monsieur," Balthazar urges. "Crowley will be done in a moment, and we need to be at the _Préfecture de Police_ before the _directeur général_ arrives. He'll be interested in knowing who called in the gendarmes to do a raid in Paris, I'm sure. There will be casualties." Balthazar taps his lip, pondering about something. "I wonder whether it would be a stroke of brilliance to reintroduce the guillotine. I'm sure Madame G would like a close encounter with Monsieur Lewis's decidedly unattractive neck."

Sam laughs. "I certainly disapprove of Lewis, but cutting off his head would be a harsh punishment for the crime he committed."

"You say that now. Snakes like Lewis are poisonous enough to spread their venom in the most unlikely places. You are very forgiving, Monsieur."

Doubting that Monsieur Balthazar really wants Lewis beheaded for setting the gendarmes on them, Sam tends to agree with the rest. Lewis is a vicious man, and Sam has seen first hand how he influences Ezra with his ridiculous opinions on Jews, homosexuality and politics. "Not really," Sam says. "I think Lucifer might be rubbing off on me. I am probably better at hiding the fact that I am not forgiving at all, though."

"It better rub off. He needs someone strong to stand by his side."

Sam doesn't know whether he is the kind of man that Lucifer needs, nor does he know whether he can be strong enough to be the pillar that Lucifer leans on. But he's damned well going to try.

*

The drive to the police station is short, and over in ten minutes. The driver stays with the car, and Sam walks with Monsieur Balthazar towards the gloom-looking building. Monsieur Crowley trails behind with Claude, discussing the advantages of Lucifer's new car, like his work is done and the rest is up to Monsieur Balthazar.

Monsieur Balthazar does not bother with any exchanges of pleasant greetings or politeness in general. He walks up to the policeman on duty. "Where is Monsieur Alighieri? I demand him released immediately. I assure you the Minister of Justice shall hear of this outrage. I find it highly unlikely that the directeur général will find it appropriate to see Monsieur still in a cell when he arrives."

The young lieutenant pales. "Avocat Balthazar. I— We—"

Clearly, Monsieur has a reputation. Leaning against the chipped desk, the room's stench of wet coats and sweat making him slightly nauseous, Sam finds that Monsieur Balthazar's confidence fills the room, making the gray walls shrink back because there isn't enough room for it. It's impressive. 

"Immediately, Lefèvre!" Monsieur Balthazar taps with a finger on the desk, impatient. "Or."

"Young Lefèvre has a brilliant career ahead of him. If he doesn't trip," Monsieur Crowley adds casually, loud enough for Lefèvre to hear. "He'll have powerful supporters. If he knows the right people to ask."

"My _inspecteur principal_ is... he is taking Monsieur Lewis's testimony." Lefèvre looks as if he's swallowed something unpleasant. "Inspecteur Principal Yeux-Jaune appeared very pleased that Monsieur Lewis complained about Monsieur Alighieri. I believe it was the inspector's decision to raid Moulin Rouge," he adds, maybe attempting to distance himself from the event. 

"Thank you, Lefèvre." Balthazar nods graciously. "I'll make sure to tell the directeur général that you opposed the inspector principal."

"Not as much as I'd liked," Lefèvre adds, slightly shameful. "Unfortunately, the inspector does not take it lightly when his decisions are questioned. Hence my current situation." Lefèvre indicates with a wave the desk he's manning. "Others were not as lucky."

"We'll remedy that later," Crowley says. "Go fetch Monsieur Alighieri, please."

"I'll allow it. If the inspecteur principal wants to fire me, he'll soon be alone here," Lieutenant Lefèvre says, visibly relieved by the support. He turns and walks quickly to a door in the back of the room. His steps are determined; this is a man who is not afraid to act, but he is still young enough to doubt his own decisions. He reminds Sam a little of Dean, which makes him like the policeman more. That, and that he's willing to release Lucifer from the holding cell. That helps too.

The break leaves Sam with time to think. Since he left Lucifer to be arrested, Sam feels like he's caught up in a game that is way above his pay grade. Monsieur Balthazar and Monsieur Crowley said it themselves: they are used to playing with the big boys, and this _is_ their playground. Sam had no idea that Lucifer's power reached that far; but evidently it does since his arrest causes reverberations all the way to the Minister of Justice. Sam decides not to think about it. On the bottom line, Lucifer's money and Lucifer's power don't matter. Sam is in love with the man, not his possessions or his status. Lucifer told him once that it wouldn't matter if he was stripped of all his belongings, all his connections. He'd be on the rise immediately and Sam believes that. The powerhouse that drives Lucifer is not made from outside sources, or from connections. It is inside him, a part of Lucifer himself. _That_ is the man Sam loves. 

Suddenly Sam is out of patience. He has to see Lucifer _now_ , touch him, make sure that he is real, that their love is real. Sam left with Lucifer's promise in his heart and he wants to hold Lucifer, tell him that they are going to be fine, that all the stupid misunderstandings are over. It becomes a physical need, not one of sexual desire, but a desire to _know_ Lucifer, not just his mind and his thoughts, but every inch of him, his body, the way he looks when they embrace, the way he looks when he gets tired or when he is happy or sad or impatient. Sam is like a racehorse, seeing the track stretching out in front of him, empty and alluring, only waiting for him to step out on it, to move, move fast towards the finishing line. He shivers, the impatience making him tense and uneasy. What if they won't let Lucifer go? What if Balthazar and Crowley aren't— 

The sound of footsteps, muted, reaches them. 

What if Lucifer has regrets?

The door swings open and Lucifer is _there_ , tired and with his shirt torn. 

Sam gasps, his heart beating so fast, and then, oh God, Lucifer smiles, the tired expression gone. 

"Sam, my darling!" 

Then Lucifer reaches for him, and Sam's longing turns into joy, eased by the soft touch of Lucifer's lips, his warm, strong embrace. Sam whispers Lucifer's name again and again, as if it is some kind of spell that binds Lucifer to him so that he can never again be taken away. "I'm never letting you go," Sam says, and it is a promise — if Lucifer wants it.

"If you think I'd ever leave you again, you are very wrong," Lucifer murmurs. "You are mine. I love you, Sam."

With fingers clutching at Lucifer's ruined shirt, Sam clings to Lucifer, the option of letting go for just a minute unthinkable. "Can we go home?" Sam asks, his words muffled because speaking clearly means that he has to move away from Lucifer, and he doesn't want that. He stays, his face buried at Lucifer's neck, breathing in his scent, his warmth easing the last of Sam's tensions. 

At the sound of more footsteps, doors opened and closed, Lucifer presses his lips to Sam's cheek. "Soon. The directeur général is here."

Sam has forgotten where they were. Damned! He's just provided the police with evidence, kissing Lucifer in public. Sam is not sure what, exactly, constitutes gross indecent behavior, but he's quite sure that kissing his male lover in front of the directeur général would be a good guess, at least if he holds the same lack of moral standards as the men who arrested Lucifer. "I'm sorry," Sam begins, but Lucifer smiles, a deep tenderness in his eyes. 

"Hush. Don't be." Lucifer kisses his cheek before he lets go, turning to the newcomer. He holds out his hand. "Maurice! Splendid. I regret having to pull you out of bed at this time of night, but we are having a case of overzealousness in your police force. Would you believe that a kiss on the cheek got me incarcerated? What has it come to when cold English men, entirely without understanding for passion, take it upon themselves to govern the actions of lovers in the land of love?"

The directeur général takes Lucifer's hand before the two men embrace. "Oh, Lucifer, _mon ami_ , please don't pretend to be sorry. We both know that you don't know the meaning of the word remorse. However, I certainly won't have my inspecteur principal carrying out his own brand of justice in my name, or in the name of the Republic. I assume that you and your young man have behaved?" The directeur général laughs. "All this commotion for a kiss? I can't imagine that you'd risk your career for a moment of public indecent behavior, nobody would believe that. It will be dealt with immediately. Where is the inspecteur principal? And the Englishman? Wyndham Lewis, right?"

Lieutenant Lefèvre greets the directeur général. "I have sent for them. And if you'll allow me to say so, Monsieur Directeur Général, the Englishman was out to revenge himself on Monsieur Winchester; it seems to be a question of jealousy; Monsieur Winchester's standing amongst the artists in Paris is high, I have been told, and his connection with a man such as Monsieur Alighieri seems to have provoked Monsieur Lewis for no reason."

"Like I said," the directeur général says. "Englishmen. They do not know the depth of passion and commitment. I appreciate our English allies, they surely know war, but do they know love? _Non_!"

That everybody are discussing the ins and outs of passionate love provides Sam with the chance he didn't know he needed, not until a door opens and Lewis and his bosom friend, the inspector principal, enter. 

"Ah, they got you, too, Winchester. How... inconvenient for you." Lewis exudes schadenfreude and malice. "Perhaps that will teach you to keep your deviant urges to yourself."

"I don't think so," Sam says and plants his fist in the middle of Lewis' smug face before anyone can stop him. "The only deviant I see here is you." Sam shakes his hand, rubbing it. Punching people hurts. "Let me know if you need more."

Lewis doesn't reply. He is too busy covering up his bleeding, broken nose, his handkerchief soaked in seconds.

The inspector principal is quick on the uptake. He pales at the sight of the assembly, and he ignores his accomplice's pain entirely. "I acted on Monsieur Lewis' information. He reported gross indecency; claiming that Monsieur Alighieri had... with Monsieur Winchester. I apologize if Monsieur Lewis's—" The inspecteur principal is washing his hands of the entire affair so fast that he doesn't care where the water lands. 

Lucifer squeezes Sam's unhurt hand. "Well done, sweetheart." Sam can see how angry Lucifer is, the coldness of his eyes is a telltale sign. The quieter Lucifer gets, the closer he is to exploding, not with the devouring fire of a volcano, no — it's the cruel, devastating slide of a glacier, cold death on the move, an avalanche of ice-cold rage and freezing anger.

For some time, time that feels as minutes, Lucifer looks at the now repentant inspector principal. Sam doesn't give the man as much as a flicker of chance.

"Your incompetence is frankly stunning, and your pathetic desertion of a man that calls you his friend is shameful, although being friends with the likes of you and Monsieur Lewis is a shame in itself. You deserve each other, cowardly creatures that you are." Lucifer stares the inspector down, and the man flinches, taking a step back as if it could save him from Lucifer's stone cold wrath. "France does not need men like you to lead her in the 20th century, the century of development and change. Your views are archaic, and you, Monsieur, are obsolete. I do not think I am overstepping my bounds here when I tell you that you are dismissed."

"Dismissed, fired in disgrace," the directeur général adds. "I apologize, Lucifer, on behalf of the police and the Minister of Justice. I will let the _commisaires divisionaires_ know that should a similar incident happen, I will not be as gracious as I have been today. As for this place, I think it is short an inspecteur principal. Monsieur Balthazar, you work closely with the Prefecture de Police. Do you have any recommendations? We need a good man to take over the position."

"A little premature, but with your support, Lieutenant Lefèvre will make a splendid replacement." Monsieur Balthazar cannot hide a smug, self-satisfied grin. " _That_ would ensure that the likes of Lewis won't succeed in their attempt to make others join their untoward persecution of Jews and homosexuals. Decent Frenchmen would be pleased to know that Paris puts and end to this outrage. No man should be arrested for being seen in public with the man he loves." Balthazar pats Lefèvre on the shoulder. "And give my regards to Aaron, will you?"

The directeur général nods. "I'll have the paperwork sent over from my office tomorrow. Until then, Provisional Inspecteur Principal Lefèvre, congratulations. I leave it to you to organize, dismiss or keep your men as you see fit. I assume you are able to come up with a solution as to where Monsieur Lewis will spend the remains of his stay in France, short as it is bound to be?"

The new inspecteur principal sends Balthazar a side glance. "I assume we have the former inspecteur principal on the payroll today, still? His last task will be to drive Monsieur Lewis to Calais and make sure he leaves France. Unless Monsieur Lewis wants to contest my decision, in which case I'd be happy to keep him in a cell until he can plead his case in front of a judge."

"If he can find a lawyer, willing to take his case." Balthazar smiles, almost angelic. "I can ask around, but I have to let my colleagues know that the Minister of Justice does not approve of Monsieur Lewis's behavior. It could take some time, as long as a few weeks. I assume you'll have to keep him incarcerated if he sues? Just to make sure he does not leave France in the middle of an investigation?"

Lewis is done wiping blood off his face. "Arrest that man!" he demands, pointing accusingly at Sam. "You all saw it! He hit me!"

"Did he?" the directeur général says. "I didn't see anything. Did anyone else see that? All I saw was that Monsieur Lewis tripped. I'd be careful with that Englishman; he is already known for levying false allegations."

"No. Wasn't looking," Lefèvre says. "Don't think anyone else was, either. But of course, if he wants to press charges... I assume he needs a lawyer if he wants to force the police to take his accusations seriously?"

"As I said: if he can find anyone willing to take the case," Monsieur Balthazar adds.

"It could be a long and difficult one," Monsieur Crowley drawls, obviously pleased. "Expensive. Any lawyer I know would want payment upfront. I mean, Monsieur Lewis is about to go back to England, and they'd surely want to have some form of deposit. Unless Lewis is kept in jail. And what about Sam? If Lewis is accusing him of a crime he didn't do?"

"Sam doesn't have to worry about that - or about money. He'll get the best legal representation France can muster. Balthazar, I assume you'll be able to dedicate your time to make sure that Sam won't exposed to such blatant injustice?"

Lewis stares at them. "What is wrong with you! That man..." Lewis points at Balthazar. "He... he... You are all disgusting. Paris is disgusting. I am leaving! As if I'd stay in a country which allows these... abominations, those sick people to have any influence in society."

"Oh, you mean, allowing people different from you to have equal say? It's called 'democracy,' Crowley growls. "I'm sure you're familiar with the term." Crowley definitely is, although Monsieur Balthazar, Lucifer and he sure has forged their own version of it. Sam can't be bothered to care.

The former inspector principal steps up, trying to save what's left of his dignity. He's the one who has to stay back in Paris when Lewis is gone, so Sam doesn't blame him, not for that, at least. 

"Wyndham, let's go. There are people here you can't fight. Monsieur Alighieri... It would be best if you let me take you to Calais. I'm sure that if you cooperate, Inspector Principal Lefèvre will allow you time to pack your things." The dethroned inspector takes Lewis's arm. Lewis yanks it out of his grip with an annoyed hiss.

"Or we could investigate that case of false allegations right away," Lefèvre says casually. "It's entirely up to Monsieur Lewis."

Monsieur Lewis finally gets that he can't fight the united front of policemen who serve Lucifer before they serve France, which in Sam's opinion seems to be more or less the same. "Fine. I see that justice has another kind of flavor in this country." He snorts derisively at Sam, regretting it sorely when his nose starts bleeding again. Crowley laughs. It's enough for Lewis, and to Sam's deep relief, he storms out the door, the dismissed inspector in tow. 

"Thank God," Sam sighs. 

"You're welcome," Monsieur Balthazar says, grinning, content as a cat in a sunbeam. "Crowley, dear, I think our work here is done."

*

Claude drives them home. Sam is tired, emotionally exhausted. The soft rocking of the car has him lured halfway into sleep before they reach Avenue Mozart. With his head on Lucifer's shoulder, and Lucifer's arm around his waist, Sam feels safe and happy. Lucifer never stops touching him. It's little kisses, a gentle, calm stroke of his back, soft words whispered in his ear, Lucifer's breath leaving little ghosts of the loving words on Sam's skin.

Sam returns the caresses almost languidly; they have time now, time to enjoy and find that state of slow-burning sensuality they had visited briefly that night on Sam's old couch. Nobody is going to interrupt them. The knowledge that they are no longer entangling themselves in misunderstandings the way a kitten entangles itself in a ball of yarn makes Sam feel calm enough to enjoy the anticipation of what is going to happen — tonight and in the future. They love each other, that is all that matters. The rest they'll figure out along the way. 

Parking the car in front of the house, Lucifer's chauffeur takes care of them while Claude hurries to alert Bonheur of their return. 

Lucifer pats his chauffeur on the shoulder, handing him a handful of large gold coins, just shaking his head as the driver attempts to thank him. 

Sam has seen a 100-Franc coin only once, and it is those that more than anything, even more than the obvious luxury that Lucifer lives in, which show Sam exactly how wealthy Lucifer is. Nobody walks around with a fortune in their pocket unless one is truly indifferent to the amount that can be lost. It's hundreds of dollars, maybe as much as a thousand that Lucifer gives away with a shrug, an amount that Sam never in his wildest imagination could dream of possessing at once. 

Lucifer's chauffeur bows politely, thanks his employer without looking at the coins, as if this kind of generous appreciation is happening frequently. It probably is. Lucifer is kind to those he likes.

Sam and Lucifer walk away from the car, towards the front door. Bonheur is waiting inside, Sam can see him through the window, the old butler ready to greet his master.

"Come," Lucifer urges as they reach the short flight of stairs that leads to the entrance. "You're staying? I don't want you to go back to Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Not tonight, not ever." Lucifer moves closer to Sam, embracing him, a secret embrace, hidden in the shadows. "Stay," Lucifer whispers. "With me. Always. I can't let you go now that I have finally won you over."

"You're asking me to give up my luxurious abode?" Sam asks, overwhelmed by Lucifer's declaration. Live with Lucifer? Never again have to worry about food or heating or... "No."

Lucifer looks as if he's been hit.

"Yes. I mean. Yes!" Sam laughs and cries at the same time, he's so happy he can't think. "I love you." 

Lucifer's tension disappears immediately. "We must learn to express ourselves better." He sighs. "And I have to say this to one of the most promising poets in Europe, God help me." 

Sam tries not to smile. He loves Lucifer, and there is nowhere he'd rather be, than here, with the man he loves so intensely. Sam pauses, searching for the right words. He breathes in, collecting what courage he has to tell Lucifer right out how he feels, what he wants. "I want to stay, but don't want to leave my apartment. I want to earn money enough to keep it. I want a place to work. That is not here." It's an intricate dance, sidestepping the frequent misunderstandings. "I want to be with you, and if that means..."

"It does. I want you to live here, Sam. With me. I want to wake up tomorrow with you by my side. Tomorrow and every morning after that."

There is nothing more to say. Sam takes Lucifer's hand. "Yes. We can fetch what I need later. We'll work out the details when we've slept."

"And made love," Lucifer says, pulling Sam into his arms. "I want you, Sam. If you're willing."

"Willing?" Sam gives up. He bursts through the front door not waiting for Bonheur to open it. Refusing to let go of Lucifer, he drags him through the brightly lit hall, the only sound their footsteps and Bonheur's outraged gasp. "Sorry, Bonheur, and goodnight," Sam says and halfway runs up the stairs, forcing Lucifer to do the same. "Where," Sam asks. "I have no patience left. You decide, otherwise the carpet out here looks good to me. It's probably softer than my bed."

"Don't think so," Lucifer says, "Since my bed is now your bed. I haven't made a habit of having intercourse with handsome young men in the hall, but if you insist, I am willing to try. For you."

"How nice of you," Sam says. But since you offer, I'd like... I think I'd like to try out our bed."

*

The bed is as soft as cumulus clouds on a summer day. There is a fire burning in the fireplace, and two electric table lamps provides the bedroom with a pleasant golden light. Sam is not sure, entirely, how they ended up in it, clothes off, only Sam's shirt is left. The state of undress has Lucifer hard, somehow Sam's partly covered chest is arousing, and Lucifer takes his time, kissing along the uncovered skin, slowly pushing back the shirt to place more kisses on Sam's heated skin.

Sam caresses Lucifer's back, hard muscle flexing as he moves, the skin damp with sweat already. Running his fingers along Lucifer's sides, Sam makes Lucifer's breath hitch, almost hiding a soft laughter. It makes Sam smile; Lucifer is ticklish. Another kiss, one that turns into a lick, teeth pulling at Sam's nipple, makes Sam concentrate on that wonderful sensation that shoots through him, making him shiver and groan, wanting more. 

"Tell me what you want, Lucifer. I'll give you everything you want," Sam declares bravely. It is true, though, anything Lucifer wants, Sam wants too, anything that makes Lucifer burn with lust will make Sam burn as well. They can stay like this, continue this slow exploration of bodies and wants, or they can... Sam moans at the thought of Lucifer's cock inside him. Yeah, he'd like that.

"I'll tell you," Lucifer murmurs, his lips on Sam's neck. "If you tell me one thing you need first."

There are so many things Sam would like to do. He wants to make love. He wants to be fucked, or to fuck Lucifer. He wants soft and gentle and hard and fast. He wants any and every possible combination of their love and their bodies, and of the lust they share, all naked and raw and vulnerable. 

"I want to know I belong to you," Sam says, knowing that is what he wants the most. "I held back for so long. I was stupid, and... confused. Now I want to be yours, I want to... I want you to take control and _take_. I want to give myself to you, and I want you to take what you need."

Lucifer leans on his elbow, looking down at Sam with a dazed expression. It takes him a moment to pull himself back, his eyes clear and sharp. "You make it sound as if you want me to punish you. I know you didn't do it to hurt me, although I was hurt. I'm not punishing you for that."

Sam smiles. He wants Lucifer intensely, as if all the longing has accumulated, turning into this irrepressible need to be Lucifer's to feast on. "It's going to be a very _pleasant_ punishment. No, I have no need for punishment. I have need for your... _possessiveness_ , the way you act when you are a little jealous and you can barely hold back. I have seen it, Lucifer, how much you want to take and own, and that's what I'd like you to do. Please?"

Lucifer nods. "I swore I'll give you everything, outside bed, and in it. I want you as my lover, Sam. My husband in everything but name. Anything you want, darling." Rolling over, sitting up on his knees, Lucifer is breathing heavily, slowly and bit roughly caressing Sam's sides, his hands following the lines of Sam's body, over his shoulders, down his arms. Lucifer closes his fingers around Sam's wrists, this time hard, hard enough to leave marks.

Sam moans. This is Lucifer laying claim to him, to _them_. 

"Keep still and enjoy," Lucifer demands as he forces Sam to put his hands over his head. "You are _mine_ , and I'll have all of you, right now."

Another moan slips away from Sam, revealing how much it arouses him that Lucifer wants to own him in bed. "I am. Yours."

"Beautiful," Lucifer says, for a minute taking the time to appreciate Sam's body. "And you'll be even more beautiful when I make you come apart."

Sam can't do anything but to look at Lucifer. Oh, he's coming apart, ever so slowly, little bits and pieces in exchange for every touch, every burning look that Lucifer sends him. 

Lucifer is gentle when he spreads Sam's legs. Sam can hardly keep still, arousal surging through him. He is hard; the thought of being Lucifer's to have and to hold makes Sam feel wanted and loved, exactly like he wants it. He wants it, too, to be Lucifer's tonight, and every night after that. He sighs as Lucifer kisses his inner thighs, his stomach, his chest. The warm slide of lips and of Lucifer's strong hands, his fingers digging into Sam's skin as his legs are spread even wider, pushed up, are the perfect combination of soft and hard, and Sam wants more. He wants Lucifer in him, wants to feel himself open up to Lucifer's body. 

Lucifer fumbles for a small tin on the side table. The bed dips as Lucifer sits back. His are fingers greasy with Vaseline, rubbing over Sam's hole, teasing and experienced. 

Sam whimpers as Lucifer eases his way in. Slick and relaxed from Lucifer's caresses, it is so good to have Lucifer press his cock into him, almost too slowly. Sam makes an impatient groan, moving under Lucifer, meeting him with little, encouraging rolls of his hips. Lucifer is slow at first, kissing Sam into submission when he gets too eager. When Sam is a mess, his cock hard and his hole widened enough for Lucifer's dick to slide in and out without much pressure, Lucifer sets a faster pace, broken only by an occasional kiss. Sam is floating on sensations. It's the smooth silk underneath his back. It's the wet, deep kisses, Lucifer's tongue over his lips, in his mouth. It's the strong arms that frame him, the brutal snaps of Lucifer's hips, the hard cock inside him. It's the warm room, the scent of sweat and sex. 

It's heaven.

Whispering endearments and filth in his ear, Lucifer is losing control, slowly but surely. It is beautiful to watch, Lucifer's half open mouth, little moans spilling out, tumbling over his lips. With closed eyes, Lucifer doesn't try to hide his pleasure or his desire. "I love you," he tells Sam over and over again, until it is enough, too much for both of them. 

"Look at me," Sam whispers, wanting Lucifer to see how much he desires him. Sam wraps his hand around his own cock, jerking it a few times, harshly, before he tenses as the orgasm washes over him. "Look at me," Sam repeats, locking eyes with Lucifer as he comes, semen splashing over his stomach and Lucifer's chest. He rides the wave for seconds, watching Lucifer as _he_ cries out, his arousal flaring. Then Lucifer is _gone_ , fucking Sam hard, control lost entirely. Sam clings to Lucifer, spreading his legs as wide as possible, letting Lucifer _take_.

"Like that, yes, God, please!" Lucifer, taking pleasure in him, is the most arousing thing Sam has ever seen or felt, and if he hadn't just come, he'd have done so from the sheer perfection of Lucifer, enthralled. 

"Mine," Lucifer moans once more, and comes, moaning and whimpering, as if arousal and pleasure and the pain of their far-too-long separation overwhelms him entirely.

"I love you," Sam tells him again and again, until Lucifer's breathing evens out, and his heart beats slow. "I love you so much."


	12. Chapter 12

"Messieurs! Messieurs?"

Sam yawns and turns on his side, wrapping himself around Lucifer, face buried at his neck. Wild horses couldn't drag him out of bed. He's going to stay here the entire day, leaving only to do what one does when one has been in bed all night. "Claude, please. Come back later." Sam wants to stay in the state of deep happiness, Lucifer's naked body warm against his own, Lucifer's lips on his skin, a soft promise of more pleasure, more love. 

"Monsieur Winchester, your brother and Monsieur Michael is downstairs. With Monsieur Gabriel. And so are—"

"What?" Sam is instantly wide awake, and if he's sore he doesn't really notice it much. He tries to sit up, but Lucifer refuses to let go. "Adam?" Sam squirms, laughing as Lucifer presses wet kisses to his back, groaning as Sam tries to pry his fingers off him.

"Sa-am." Lucifer makes the most pathetic, begging sound. It makes Sam hesitate although staying it not an option, not if Adam is downstairs. Adam should be in bed at the sanatorium, not wander about on winter-cold roads with Michael. He turns to kiss Lucifer on the mouth, for a second forgetting that they are not alone. Claude reminds him discreetly, making a small cough.

"Monsieur Bonheur will serve breakfast for your guests in twenty minutes." Claude tries to hide a smile, but he doesn't quite manage. "Should I let them know that you'll be down to take coffee with them?"

"No," Lucifer growls, trying to grab Sam again. 

"Yes," Sam says, very determined. "Adam."

"I know," Lucifer says, retreating. He lets Sam get out of his embrace. He grabs one of the silk sheets draping it around himself, very Roman-emperor-esque. "Thank you, Claude. Please, put out clothes for us — Sam must make do with what I have until we can get bespoke suits made for him — then go tell my brother we'll be down in fifteen minutes; offer Adam a place to lie down if he needs it — anything he wants, blankets, tea, a five-course dinner. Just give him what he wants."

Claude closes the door, and in a second Sam is in Lucifer's arms, kissing him greedily, shamelessly needy, ignoring entirely that he has just used five minutes on getting Lucifer to behave. "I want to go downstairs," Sam croaks, Lucifer nibbling at his neck. "I want—" He makes a yelp as Lucifer simply grins and throws him back in bed, legs spread, mouth on his cock before he can do anything. "Fi—ne," Sam gasps, thrusting into Lucifer's hot mouth. "It can—oh—wait!"

Lucifer is ruthless and gives no mercy. He sucks Sam down; it's hard and fast and good. Lucifer reaches behind his own legs, massaging his cock, his other hand around Sam's balls, teasing and squeezing until Sam is moaning so loudly that he is sure they can hear him downstairs. He bites his fist, trying to keep it down, for decency's sake, not that he has much left, not the way he wants Lucifer. "Love you," he groans, one hand in Lucifer's hair to ensure he doesn't move away, not that it's likely, not the way Lucifer is moaning around his dick. Lucifer moves his hands faster, rapidly nearing his release. It's quick and hot, and Sam's arousal flares with Lucifer's desire for him, the sounds that Lucifer makes are a clear indication of how much Lucifer wants him. 

"Stop," Sam sighs, "I—"

It doesn't bother Lucifer, because he continues sucking, his voice vibrating around Sam's cock. The sudden sensation of something warm and moist across his thigh makes Sam jerk, Lucifer is coming, his semen hot on Sam's skin. It's delightfully dirty, and Sam lets Lucifer do what he wants, his come trickling down Sam's thigh. Lucifer smears it over him, on his skin; whether it is deliberate or not, Sam doesn't care. It's Lucifer, staking his claim, and Sam comes, knowing he belongs here, with Lucifer, sharing his pleasure. 

Spent, Sam closes his eyes, pawing at Lucifer to get him to move. "I want you to kiss me," Sam demands, and Lucifer makes the most satisfying sound. Sam is not in doubt that he'll have Lucifer show him how much, in detail, later. Right now they have time for a few kisses and a quick bath. Sam laughs, tired and happy, at the mere idea of going into a bathroom with running hot and cold water; it's like a dream, it's heaven, and he's never going to wake up. Sam is going to embrace it, living in a _palais_ with a very rich lover, the only man he will love for the rest of his life. Sam is fine with that. Great. He'll have his art and his apartment to work in, and when he goes home, he'll have Lucifer. It's a different life from the one he had before, but if Adam can embrace change and living in the lap of luxury, so can Sam.

"What are you laughing at?" Lucifer asks, his voice a little rough. "I certainly don't hope it's me." He caresses Sam's cheek gently, an expression of adoration on his pleased face. "Because I'll have to suck you off again, and neither I, nor you, have the stamina for that."

It only makes Sam laugh even louder, and he is still smiling when he shares a hungry kiss with Lucifer, the taste of come still on his tongue.

*

Claude is waiting in the hall, swinging the huge doors to the dining room open as they reach the bottom of the stairs. The delicious smell of coffee and freshly baked bread waffles through the air, making Sam's mouth water. Oh, there are certainly benefits to not waking up in a cold, food-less place — although less than a palais, complete with butler, valet, maids and cook would have been more than enough.

One of those benefits is to be able to have his brother and friends over for breakfast. 

Sam steps into the dining room, and his face splits into a wide, happy grin at the sight of Ezra and Henri, Michael and Adam. Adam gets a glare. "Why are you not in bed?" Sam greets him, giving him a careful hug. "Are you stupid?"

"Not stupid. Gabriel says fine. Not arrested," Adam says, his breathing strained. "Worried."

"What he said," Gabriel says and pokes Lucifer in the chest with a finger. "Next time you run into people who don't like your choice in partners, let me know. I have the means to kill them, and the ditch to bury them in."

"That's so generous of you," Lucifer says, shaking his head. "But I prefer to pay my enemies back myself, thank you very much." Lucifer turns to Adam, a hand on his shoulder. "Would you like to sit?" 

"Gabriel said it was fine, as long as Adam was careful," Michael says, pulling a chair out for Adam. "And since we're talking about stupidity..." Michael's smile belies his words. He pats Lucifer on the shoulder. "Please don't get arrested again. I hate being woken up in the middle of the night to be propositioned by Balthazar. The man has no decency."

"He has Crowley," Lucifer says. "He'd never let Balthazar stray. "But point taken."

"We heard you got in trouble. We were about to visit Adam, and since he was leaving his bed to check on you, we had to come see if you needed help," Henri says, taking Sam's hand. "Between you and Ez, I wonder how I have time to carve at all."

"What is he talking about?" Ezra asks, making the most innocent expression. "I'm the least troublesome person alive."

It makes everybody laugh; Ezra's reputation for being a troublemaker hasn't come out of nothing.

"Since breakfast is ready, why don't we all sit down and eat?" Lucifer says, pushing Ezra gently towards a chair. "Gentlemen, breakfast is served."

Sam's stomach growls loudly, making them all stare at him. Ezra snorts, trying not to laugh. "When has a poor writer ever declined a meal!" Ezra exclaims and sits, staring hungrily at the cornucopia of food that is piled on the dining table.

"Bonheur, fetch the Champagne," Lucifer demands as he, too, sits. "Let's have a celebration."

And a celebration it is. The table is filled with silver trays: bacon and eggs, grapes and cheese, apples and jam. The bread is fresh and the butter and milk tastes spicy and green; Bonheur and the cook certainly has gone above the usual French breakfast that never really was enough for Sam: a croissant and a cup of coffee is all he's had for too many mornings, and this breakfast splendor underlines that Sam sure has gone from famine to feast. 

Bonheur returns with glasses and bottles.

"What are we celebrating?" Gabriel asks curiously, waiting for Bonheur to pour for him. "Apart from Lucifer not being in a cage, and Adam's operation, which, if I have to say so myself, showed that I am not only a brilliant scientist but also a damned good surgeon."

"Good to know that our youngest brother is modest and humble," Michael deadpans. "Don't be shy, Gabriel, just tell us what you think about your own abilities." 

"Adam's health and my release surely are worth celebrating." Lucifer leans back in his chair, looking so smug that Sam can't decide whether he wants to punch him or kiss him. "But I have yet another cause for celebration," Lucifer says, and takes Sam's hand. "Sam has agreed to be mine — until death do us part. So I ask you to share my happiness, just as I am so very pleased to share yours. I have a husband in everything but name."

There are cheers and toasts and Michael becomes strangely emotional, embracing Lucifer before he returns to attend to Adam. 

"Didn't think you would," Adam manages, leaving to Sam to find out what he means.

"I... I love him," Sam admits willingly. "I thought it'd ruin me, stunt my writing not to leave in squalor, but now I understand that there is a bleakness so much worse: living without my... my husband." Sam tastes the word, letting it roll over his tongue, velvet and softness and safety and still... sensual, as if being with Lucifer is a mix of everything Sam needs, the satisfaction of everything he ever wanted. Love makes him _full_. "I didn't think I would, either, but that was before I saw what's in his heart. He might be different from Michael, but deep down, they're the same. They both love strongly."

Michael doesn't look too satisfied with that assessment, but he doesn't complain.

Adam nods. "Love very strong." He smiles, gasps for air and takes Michael's hand. "Strong enough to make me live."

"I know how you feel," Sam says. It's like that: Lucifer gives him strength to do all the things he'd like to do. It has nothing to do with wealth, not about fortune. Their love is their capital, and they will never be poor, not when they're together.

"So you're above us mortals?" Ezra asks. "No more Le Perdu?"

It makes Sam laugh. "I'm going to earn my own money; I have to be able to support Lucifer." Sam won't go back on that. Lucifer might be rich, but Sam is not going to sit idle at home while Lucifer does what Lucifer does. Sam has a muse that won't let him, and a pride with a similar opinion.

Ez swats at him. "Idiot," he says lovingly. "Your art?"

"Did you ever know a true writer who was able to stop writing?"

"Good point. I won't disqualify you as an Imagist, then."

"Thank you, most gracious leader," Sam teases. "I thought you denounced the Imagist movement years ago, now that we're at it. Anyway, I'm keeping the apartment; I want to write, and I want to go to Le Perdu, and I—" Sam throws his hands up. "I don't want things to change."

"You'll smell better," Henri says, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "I saw the bathroom. It's better than a barrel."

"I'll make sure to invite you for baths instead of dinners." Sam tests his new power. He lives here, he is able to invite his friends, giving back, returning the kindness they showed him when he had nothing.

Henri chuckles. "You can invite me to dinner too. Bath and dinner. I'll definitely accept."

"Everything I own is Sam's too. He can invite anyone he damned likes to do whatever they want here. As long as nobody invites Lewis," Lucifer growls, leaning over to kiss Sam. "Except it's much easier to murder people in a bathtub; it's less messy."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ezra says. "A pity Lewis is such a gifted painter; it's difficult to ignore his art."

"I wonder why you put up with him in the first place," Henri wonders. "He is part prejudice, part talent. But at least he's not in France any longer." Henri sounds a little worried. Ezra's connection to Lewis isn't to his liking, Sam knows that already. But that discussion is for another day, another time.

"I know you have many supporters, but better not do anything to ruin your status within the party," Michael tells Lucifer, really serious this time. "It's enough that you'll have to convince a few fools who don't understand love that living with Sam does not undermine your ability to promote the unification of the center left with the center right. I suppose I should see that as a minor problem. The Alliance is as strong as ever, and when you are elected, nobody will care about your personal life because it's built on faithful love." Michael smiles again. "So you see why you can't kill anyone, though, that _will_ set your rise to power back considerably."

"Rest assured, Brother, that I will never do anything to risk what I have won. There is nothing or no one more precious to me than Sam. Sam and my family." Lucifer looks up, proud, like winning Sam over has been the greatest accomplishment of his life. "My friends."

"And nothing is more precious to me than Adam," Michael confesses. "And strangely enough the two of you." He points at Lucifer and Gabriel. "Sam. Our friends." Michael sighs, a relieved and happy sigh. "I think we have been blessed."

"He's adorable when he..." Adam has to pause. "When he forgets that he's serious and strict." Despite his breathlessness, Adam smiles, blue-lipped from lack of oxygen, but happy, oh, so happy.

Sam makes a smile, too, soft and gentle and just as happy as Adam's wonderful smile. The notorious Lucifer Alighieri is handsome, rich, and everything Sam didn't want at first. And yet here he is, his life nothing like the life he imagined for himself, or for Adam, but much, much better. There is a bright future ahead of them, filled with friendship and art. And love. 

Sam reaches for Lucifer's hand. 

"Have you decided?" Lucifer asks, raising Sam's hand to his lips.

"On what?" Sam inquires, not really understanding.

"You told me once that I was Satan incarnate." Lucifer's lips curl slightly at the corners, showing that he is nowhere near serious. "When Adam wrote that poem about me. _Pavane for the Devil_. And I told you that I would release you from any promise you made if you still thought so when I was done courting you. Have you decided?"

"I think Adam has to write something in the direction of a _Courante for an Angel_ next time," Sam tells Lucifer. "I think I could love the Devil, but it would be the angel part of him that would make me stay. I guess there is enough angel left in you to keep me here."

The triumphant smile on Lucifer's lips is nowhere near angelic, and Sam wouldn't have it any other way. 

 

**Epilogue: 1945.**

"Monsieur Winchester! Monsieur Winchester! Minister Alighieri!"

The wind tears the cries asunder, only parts of the shouted questions can be heard over the roar of the aeroplanes that land or take off.

The journalists and their photographers crowd them, cameras shoved in their faces. Sam is tired after the long flight, but he manages to smile and greet the journalists he knows. Lucifer, infinitely more interesting to the public than Sam, is pulled away to do a brief interview with Radio France. A few journalists stay back.

"As a cultural envoy between France and the United States, you just visited Mr Pound in prison. Mr Pound has been found guilty of treason. Monsieur, do you—"

Sam cuts the journalist off before he gets any further. "Monsieur Pound is a lifelong friend. Misguided in the extreme, he chose to speak up against France and our allies during the war when he agreed to participate in broadcasting Japanese propaganda. He damaged our countries, he damaged the war effort and he damaged our friendship. But I would be a poor friend to abandon a man who was always my friend when I was a poor artist living in poverty. I do not agree with Monsieur Pound's opinions, I do not condone his actions, that much is obvious. But I _am_ still his friend. One day he might come to understand the damage he has done, and if I can help him take the first step on the road to redemption, I sure will lend a helping hand. We have peace now, gentlemen, reconciliation is what we need to concentrate on. My other good friend, Henri Gaudier, who most certainly didn't support Mr Pound's choices is staying with him, trying to help him on his way to recovery."

It's a pretty speech, Sam knows that. Ezra didn't go through the war unscathed; he suffers from memory loss and hallucinations after his stay in an Italian prison before he was transported to America to face charges. It is what has saved him, though, his mental breakdown; Ez is going to live, locked up at the mental institution at St. Elizabeth's for the foreseeable future. It is still better than being executed for treason, although Sam has to admit that Ezra deserves it. He has rarely been so disappointed and sad as when Ezra took up broadcasting Fascist propaganda to the world. Wyndham Lewis sure had an impact on Ez. Sam is truly sad that he did not see that coming, the damage that Lewis did. It caused a rift between Henri and Ezra, too. It might heal one day. Sam has faith in the power of love, still. At least Henri is in America now, with the man he loves, despite everything.

Another journalist comes up to him, a young man, maybe out on his first big assignment. "Does the Minister of Commerce share your opinion on Monsieur Pound? You have been traveling together with the Minister Alighieri as usual. He accompanied you to see Monsieur Pound?"

An older journalist elbows the kid in the ribs. " _Ne faites pas ça_. Don't do that." 

The young man stares at his colleague, oblivious. "But..."

It's a not-very-secret secret that Sam shares his life with the French Minister of Commerce. As they have lived together in Lucifer's palais at Avenue Mozart for more than twenty-five years, it's hardly a shock to the public. Still, nobody speaks about it. "Monsieur Winchester's and Minister Alighieri's private travel arrangements are of no interest to our readers," the older man says. He bows. "Apologies, Monsieur. What my apprentice wanted to ask was, 'Minister Alighieri has been in America as well. Did he visit Monsieur Pound?'"

"I think you better ask the Minister himself," Sam says. It has been a long time since he stopped being annoyed that Lucifer and he have to be so quiet about their life-long love, but he never stopped hoping that one day they wouldn't have to. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we are on our way to see my brother; his doctors are testing a new cure against tuberculosis, one that has showed very promising results."

A huge black Daimler limousine rolls slowly across the airfield, announcing the end of the interviews. Sam is relieved. He can get an hour of sleep before they see Adam. Lucifer has dismissed the members of the press and hurries towards the safety of the car. 

Sam slides into the back seat, immediately sinking into the deep, soft seats, eyes closed. The seat dips as Lucifer gets in next to him. 

"All right, baby?" Lucifer asks, snaking his arm around Sam's shoulder, not caring a bit that they are seen.

Warm lips meet his, and Sam makes a deep sigh in reply. "Just tired." He opens his eyes, almost too tired to do so. "Happy that we're going to be at home tonight."

Lucifer laughs. "I'm sure you are. Then again, so am I. Go to sleep. Now, Sammy, or you won't be able to appreciate our bed later. I'll wake you when we're at Petit Fontainebleau." There is a rustle when Lucifer shifts to grab a plaid. He covers Sam's legs with it, making sure he is comfortable, fussing a little before he settles, his arm around Sam's shoulder once more. "I'm going to make love to you all night, sweetheart."

"Promises, old man," Sam murmurs, snuggling up to Lucifer. Lucifer's hair might be more gray than blond now, but being in bed with him isn't getting old at all. "Have I mentioned that I love you?" Sam mumbles, his nose at Lucifer's neck.

"Once or twice," Lucifer says and pulls Sam close. 

It's so easy to fall asleep, warm and cared for, and Sam drifts off, head on Lucifer's chest, lulled into pleasant dreams by the gentle movements of the car and by Lucifer's steady heartbeat.

*

The limousine drives past the main house, to the backside of Petit Fontainebleau's left wing, and stops right next to the entrance that leads to the grand apartment that Michael and Adam share when Adam has to go in for treatment. Gabriel is waiting for them outside. Even before they are out of the car, Gabriel's quicksilver mood is apparent. Clad in a white lab coat, holding a small tray littered with test tubes and folders, Gabriel can hardly contain the eager energy that never left him. Like the rest of them, he is no longer young, but Gabriel still makes Sam smile. Gabriel will never grow old.

"Sammo! Luci!" Gabriel cries as they step out of the car. "What kept you so long? I've been standing here for more than four minutes, and you owe me a drink — no, make that two — for making me wait!"

Sam yawns and stretches, not entirely awake. It's too late to ward himself against Gabriel's enthusiastic, one-armed hug, artistically performed with the tray balancing on the other hand. Sam is kissed on both cheeks before Gabriel lets him go.

"Some welcome," Sam laughs and musses Gabriel's hair. "How've you been?"

"Fine, fine! I have been playing with my chemistry set all week. You see, I have these lovely little _Streptomyces griseus_ to rear, and when they are all grown and ready to move out, they are perfect little hunters. I've already tested the outcome on my darling lab rat. Purified _griseus_ inhibits Mycobacterium tuberculosis, it has been tested on a few critically ill TB patients, and it works. Schatz and Waksman are going to get the Nobel Prize for the discovery — if they could stop fighting over who came up with the idea in the first place." Gabriel snorts, annoyed with his fellow scientists. "I use my time in a more sensible manner. At least when I'm not freezing to death, waiting for you two.

"It's September, Gabriel. Nobody freezes to death."

"So?"

"Seriously?"

"Nope, kiddo. But I like playing with you. Let's go and tell Adam that I have his test results ready, shall we?" Without waiting for the unnecessary confirmation, Gabriel coaxes them into the house, up the stairs, to the luxurious apartment that has been Adam's home for almost three decades.

Sam runs ahead, eager to see Adam; it has been weeks. Adam looks great. His cheeks are pink, and he is slightly tanned, as if he's been using a lot of time outside. They embrace, Sam happy to see his brother so well, the long, hot summer has been good to him. It's in here, too, the hall smells of roses and of the warm summer wind; as usual, Michael have had their servants decorate the rooms with flowers; the airy rooms and the leather-and-steel furniture seem more warm that way. Everything here, like everything else in Michael's life, revolves around Adam's wellbeing.

Adam pulls Sam down next to him in a deep sofa that is vastly more comfortable than it looks. The leather is soft and the pillows deep, and Sam makes a similarly deep sigh. 

"How was Dean? Did you see Ez? How was the flight?" Adam demands, reaching for a tray with a few bottles on it. "Cognac?"

"Dean was fine, our nieces and nephews in good health. Ez... not so much." Sam recalls Ez's bent shoulders, weighed down by lost dreams and anger. "He's better when Henri is with him, but... St Elizabeth is jail, no matter how you see it. He sends his love. He is still the same old Ezra when it comes to... us, I suppose. Henri has the patience of an angel." Sam nods. "Yes, please."

"True love. It conquers all."

Sam smiles. "You'd know."

"Yeah." Adam's deep sigh is a happy one. "Who'd have known that his annoying persistence would lead to so much happiness. I think I'm more in love with Michael now than I was then." Adam pours two glasses and hands one to Sam.

"You sap," Sam grins and takes the offered drink. "And that's not possible. You were done for, even before you told him, yes."

"Of course not," Adam attempts, entirely belied by his slightly dazed expression when Michael walks in, Lucifer following him. "I was never so madly in love as Michael was. Is." Adam puts his glass down, too busy looking adoringly at his man.

Michael's usual serious attitude disappears like dew in the presence of the morning sun. "You tell yourself that, darling." He kisses Adam on the cheek. "Gabriel has your tests ready, he tells me."

Adam's hand is suddenly in Sam's, clenching hard around his fingers when Gabriel walks in. Michael sits down on Adam's other side, offering him a supportive arm around his shoulder.

"Sam—" Adam coughs and can't say anything, but if how hard he clenches Sam's hand is any indication of how nervous Adam is, he really should have swallowed that drink, and perhaps another. 

"I could be mean and drag it out," Gabriel says and puts the tray he has been carrying on the coffee table in front of Adam. "But I won't. These," Gabriel points at some of the test tubes and smears on the tray, "are your tests. The Brownlee test shows clearly that the streptomycin has had an effect," he explains, Lucifer looking over his shoulder. "It works as we expected; the inhibitors have prevented any further development of tuberculosis. However, the tests confirm the initial findings of Dr Dickinson in Northampton: to remove the final virulent and viable Mycobacterium T, a much larger dose than we expected is necessary."

"What does that mean?" Adam asks. "It didn't help?" His voice is neutral, a little strained. His grip is still painfully hard. "I feel better."

"It means that it was a good thing that I bribed my way to every wonderful little strepto I could lay my hands on. You may need a second round, and we might need to keep you on those fun injections on a regular basis to make one hundred percent sure that it works. Thank God for Michael's bottomless bank account, because this is expensive stuff. Anyway, the tuberculosis is gone, although there are still a few dodgy spots on your spleen. Look, here." Gabriel opens the folder and pulls out an x-ray, pointing at a spot on a glob that might be Adam's spleen. "Otherwise, your lungs are as good as new. Well, not really, but they aren't too bad, either. So you're cured. That's about it. You're cured. We did it, kid!"

Adam sits quietly for a few seconds, the happy message sinking in. Without letting go of Sam's hand, Adam turns into Michael's arms. With his face at Michael's neck, Adam cries, relief and happiness getting the better of him.

Sam reaches across the table, his free hand on Gabriel's. "Thank you. For everything."

"Adam's family." Gabriel nods as if it explains everything. 

Maybe it does. They are family. Gabriel is like the brother Sam and Adam left in the States; it is moments like these when Sam misses Dean intensely, but Gabriel's attitude and his charm is so like Dean's that Sam feels a little better. They'll talk on the telephone later, Dean and he, but until then, Sam is happy to have Gabriel sitting here, and for so many reasons other than his brilliant medical skills. 

Adam finally has collected himself enough to show his face. It's tear-streaked and slightly puffy, but Michael looks at him like he's the most beautiful man in the world. Sam gets up, walking across the room, to his beloved, to Lucifer, letting Michael and Adam have a little privacy to share their relief. 

"What we hoped for—" Michael says, his voice breaking. "Oh, Adam."

"Michael," Adam sighs, and they're in each other's arms again, obviously delighted that they have _time_.

Sam's smile grows brighter and warmer, nourished by Adam's and Michael's happiness. 

Lucifer pats Gabriel on the back. "Well done. Any chance for a Nobel Prize?"

"Not my idea," Gabriel admits generously. "But I got my reward." He looks pointedly at Adam and Michael. 

"We need Champagne!" Michael laughs and cries at the same time as he gets up, Adam's hand in his. "I can't even... Gabriel..."

"Nah, it's fine, Brother. Adam keeps you from getting too boring, that's thank you enough for me." Gabriel smirks, but his eyes, too, are shining with tears of joy.

"Tonight we celebrate," Lucifer declares. "I don't care that we haven't slept, Sam! We're going to Le Perdu. All of us!"

"Back where it all started," Michael says, his eyes still blank and his relief and joy bright. "I still remember the moment I saw him, Adam. I knew that instant he was meant for me, and I for him."

Lucifer embraces Michael. "And you used the next three months complaining that he wouldn't give you the light of day. Not like me and Sam. He loved me from the moment we met. Isn't that right, darling?"

Sam and Adam look at each other. "Good thing we're going back to Perdu, because someone needs his memory refreshed," Sam says before he hauls Lucifer into a deep kiss, confirming their love as he has done every day for more than thirty years. He's never going to get tired of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! The small fic that was meant to be around 5K certainly took a life of its own. But now it's done, and it wouldn't have been half as amazing without your comments and support, so thank you, all! <3
> 
>  
> 
>  **About the writers and artists who made their way into this fic** : 
> 
> Ezra Pound was arrested for treason in Rapallo, April 1945. He was released in 1958, "permanently and incurably insane". Unfortunately nobody managed to make Pound change his mind about his actions during the war: he returned to Italy, continuing to support Fascism as well as various unsavory anti-semitic characters.
> 
> Wyndham Lewis recognized the suffering of the Jews after a visit to Berlin in 1937. In 1941 his eyesight started deteriorating. By 1951, he was blind.
> 
> Henri Gaudier-Brzeska died in the trenches in 1915, fighting for France. He was decorated for bravery. He was 23. The world lost one of its greatest artists. Ezra Pound lost the man he loved more than anything in the world, a turning point in Ezra's life — one that might have been the first push towards depression and a ruined mental health.


End file.
